The Beginning of Silence
by SJ.Endeavor
Summary: The treasure was stolen long ago. Desmond must go back to the beginning to find the means to an end. Altair's past may hold the key to the future, but only Desmond can engage the lock. Set pregame in Altair's memories, but aftergame in Desmond's world.
1. Chapter 1

The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 01

* * *

Desmond hated his days off. 

Well, 'day,' as in 'singular,' really. He only had one day he didn't spend at work. When he thought about it, he was probably the only sane individual who felt that way—who would hate a day off after a six-day work week that included long nights, loud music, and rowdy clientele? Nobody, that's who.

But, if in the unlikely event someone shared his sentiments, their feeling of dislike would probably pale next to Desmond's. His abhorrence almost certainly stemmed from the fact that he had absolutely nothing to do on his day off, and Desmond hated to be bored. When his hands weren't busy pouring drinks and his mouth and mind weren't preoccupied with wheedling one-sided conversations out of barflies, it left him room to think, and his thoughts would inevitably stray back to the Abstergo incident.

Of course, he tried his best to think of other things, but it was hard now that Altaïr, his long-dead ancestor of dubious occupation, was now fully 'synchronized' with Desmond. Not that it hadn't been cool to have the bad-as assassin with him—at first. Desmond soon got tired of how his reflexes reacted to the slightest stimulant, and how his eyes darted around the room upon entry, looking for escape routes. And that thing Lucy and Dr. Warren Vidic had called 'Eagle Vision'—it was hell! People glowed funny colors based on their mood towards you, and while that had been handy at distinguishing the raging drunks from the sobbing ones down at the bar, it got real old real quick. Knowing in advance which soused man was going to hit on Desmond's only coworker, the pretty bartender Mary, ahead of time wasn't fun, even if it did impress her that he threw them out of the bar so fast they're heads spun. At least his new reflexes were good for something.

A month had passed since the messages on his wall—the cryptic ones citing Bible verses and what may or may not have been the Mayan end of the world—had been written, and Lucy had busted him out of the Abstergo lab. He hadn't seen or heard any Abstergos since he got loose. They'd left, but something else had come along to take their place: glowing people, strange urges to hide from anyone wearing a red cross or 'x' on their clothes, and even odder urges to scale skyscrapers with his bare hands were what characterized Desmond's life now, and he was really starting to get annoyed. Sundays didn't help much. They got him thinking.

Who was Desmond, really? He wasn't wholly Desmond Miles anymore, that was for sure. Was he Altaïr now? His ancestor's presence was undeniable, but the Desmond part of him still lingered. Did that make him something in between? His ancestor's new role in his life was too significant to be ignored, and left Desmond feeling like someone else. He was no longer the old Desmond, what with his sharper mind and more in-tune awareness. Assassins, Templars—he saw them everywhere now. Every jolly politician on the news was a New Knight, and all who opposed—well, they were like Desmond, weren't they? Assassins of a new age. Or were they like Altaïr's old master, an assassin in disguise?

Even his heightened senses weren't enough to reveal to him a distant TV figure's ancient allegiance.

* * *

Late Sunday afternoon, almost one month after running away from the Abstergo lab, Desmond wandered around his kitchen. Rain pattered on the window sullen persistence, beating a tattoo on the panes in discordant time with Desmond's feet. He was bored, but then, he usually was. Thinking to occupy himself, he opened up the drawer he kept the silverware in. A butter knife leapt to his fingers. Its dull edge reflected the fluorescents overhead.

Lately, Desmond had taken to talking to himself. He knew it wasn't a good sign where his sanity was concerned, but it helped ease the voices which echoed in the Sunday silence.

"You know, I could probably kill someone with this," he said. With the air of an experimenting child, he slashed the knife through the air. It whistled, and he grinned bitterly. Desmond lowered his body into a fighting stance and parried the blade of an imaginary enemy. "Take that!"

The diversion didn't last long; Desmond felt idiotic, swinging a butter knife at his refrigerator. He tossed the tool into the sink with a clatter and a splash: it had hit the maelstrom of dirty dishes he hadn't bothered to clean over the past week. Sneakers squeaked on the linoleum, and Desmond went into the living room, where he settled onto the couch.

He wasn't one for much TV, now that all he could see were assassins and Templars, but he turned the set on anyway and propped his feet on the coffee table, thumbing up the volume over the din of the downpour outside. He liked to watch the news, however, and was waiting for someone to report the finding of an ancient artifact that would 'change the world.' He knew it would come eventually, but after a month, the suspense was waning. Hadn't Abstergo made their move yet?

Desmond absently flipped channels, settling on sports, where he watched a basketball player get elbowed in the face by the opposing team's forward. "I coulda dodged that," he growled, and knew it was true. The game would have been child's play for Altaïr, and Desmond too, now that they were synced. "Kid stuff." He was about to grumble about the slow reflexes of the now-bleeding post when someone knocked on his door. Loudly, in fact. They showed no signs of quitting, either.

He wanted to ignore it. It was probably the landlord, looking for rent money. Desmond didn't get off the couch. But the knocking didn't stop (not that he thought it would), so eventually he roused himself.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," Desmond growled, rolling to his feet with uncanny grace. His new and improved smooth movements had been commented on dozens of times since he and Altaïr were synced. Not that grace mattered to Desmond. "No need to break down the door." The raps had risen to an unholy crescendo— louder than the rain outside, even. The sheer volume set his instincts on edge; made him wary to let the intruder in. After all, it was probably nobody. Right? Desmond couldn't be sure, so, for the sake of his nerves, he kept the chain on.

Good thing, too, since it seemed Dr. Vidic was the mysterious caller.

When it rains, it pours.


	2. Chapter 2 & Author's Note

The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 02

Even with a constitution augmented by an age-old assassin's, Desmond was still not prepared to see the wolfish smile Vidic so proudly displayed through the crack between Desmond's door and its frame. His stomach did a back flip, but the rest of him was too stunned to move. He suddenly felt sick.

"Hello, Mr. Miles," said Vidic, still smiling broadly. "I see you're looking well. May I come in?"

That broke Desmond's paralysis. He slammed the door in the doctor's face, bolted it, and backed away. He didn't know what to do. He hadn't been expecting this, not after a month of nothing. His mouth was a dry as the deserts of Altair's homeland.

The backs of Desmond's knees bumped into his coffee table. The TV still blared loudly about basketball, oblivious to his plight. The rain droned on, steady. A bead of cold sweat trickled over Desmond's temple. His heart beat with a crazy cadence, and Desmond's hands trembled like a child's.

He willed himself to be calm, and the peace came rushing in, courtesy of Altair's training. Here were the benefits of synchronization at last. The hair on the back of his neck rose, goose flesh burst out on his arms, and then Desmond could sense the vibrations in the air, telltale whispers of sensation that betrayed the slightest movement of either friend or foe. Sounds magnified, became distinct. Scents sharpened. Sights vivified. It was like opening his eyes. Desmond knew what to do, now that he could think.

He wheeled around and stalked over to his balcony, a small concrete ledge ringed in cheap wrought iron, simultaneously pulling the black hood of his sweatshirt over his head. Not minding the rain, he stuck his head out into the gale, looking for a ledge. He saw one in reach, stood on the wrought iron barrier with steady feet despite the water, and grabbed the up-stair neighbor's balcony. With a grunt and a show of strength unexpressed by his build, he hauled himself upward with only his arms. From there, it was an easy matter to ascend of the side of the building using the network of balconies, just hand over hand over hand…

Desmond wasn't even winded when he finally made it to the roof. He set off for the fire escape he'd picked as a get away point at a sprint, but stopped dead when a man in a crisp black suit stepped off of it onto the plastic/rubber chips someone had liberally strewn over the roof's surface. There was a gun in his hand, pointed straight at Desmond.

Desmond decided that the opposite direction was better (guns can be very good incentives for directional changes), so he turned mid-step and ran. A shot rang out, and a spray of water and rubber bits foutained next to his foot. He stopped dead, rain mixing with the cold sweat on his brow.

"Don't move," said the suit. "Next time, I won't miss."

"I gathered," Desmond quipped, slowly raising his hands.

The suit saw the motion and approved, both of it and Desmond's words. "Good man. Turn around, and keep 'em up,"

"Yes sir," said Desmond with an insincere smirk, and did as directed. He grinned, blinking water from his eyes. His hood had fallen down sometime during his run. "Don't suppose you'd just let me walk away?"

"Not a chance," the gunman replied, weapon leveled.

"Ah, well. Didn't think so." Desmond shrugged, then swallowed. The Altaïr part of him was screaming for action, but then, Altaïr hadn't understood the concept of firearms. He hadn't had to deal with them back in the day, and couldn't fathom why Desmond was letting a (seemingly) unarmed man hold him in place by pointing a blunt bit of metal at him (The object isn't even streamlined for throwing! the assassin's instinct screamed). But, Desmond fought the urge to bodily take the suit down; even though he knew that though the man was bigger, he was slower.

A moment later, two more figures stepped off the fire escape. The first was another gun-toting suit, complete with pistol, and the second was Vidic.

The doctor gave the first suit a curt nod and said: "Thank you, Mr. Thompson." He walked forward until he was within a stone's throw of Desmond—but not arm's reach. Vidic knew that the Altaïr side of his captive would not dismiss the chance for a hostage. His smile was more wolfish than ever. "Ever the rebellious one, Mr. Miles?"

"You know it," Desmond returned. He swallowed again. He hated being trapped like this; like Bugs Bunny in a shallow hole. "What's up, Doc?"

Vidic's eyes burned, and his uncharacteristically genial nature vanished. "Are you trying to be funny?"

"No. It's more like I'm 'trying to be a bunny,' if you really wanna know."

"The humor fell flat after the first syllable. It would be best to quit now, while you are ever so slightly ahead."

Desmond shrugged, but decided one more Looney Tunes quote was in order. "Th-th-then that's all, folks," he said in Porkie the Pig's trademark stutter.

Vidic's lips twitched, but not in a smile. "Yes, you always were the funny one," he said. "So unlike your ancestor."

"Bite me."

"I'll do worse if you don't cooperate." The words were punctuated by the cocking of a gun.

That shut Desmond up. Vidic smirked. "Now, be a good boy and come with me, Mr. Miles. No funny business."

Desmond opted for silence, then let himself be herded down the fire escape and into the back of a sleek black car.

After all, with a gun at his back, what choice did he have?

* * *

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE AND/OR APOLOGY: 

Frankly, I suck something awful at playing Assassins Creed.

I blame my ineptitude on my short attention span. I'm too lazy to pickpocket, too chicken to interrogate, and have a distinct aversion to the informer's time trial flag-collecting challenges. Plus, when it comes to all that wall climbing—dear God, if that was me in there, I would break my neck. My mind jumps from thing to thing with a speed my dear Altaïr can't follow—one moment, I want him on the market stall, the next on the roof. The controls just can't keep up with my brain (but not to put any blame on Montreal Ubisoft's marvelous control scheme—my fingers can't make time either).

That being said, I would like to warn you that I have left most of the playing part of the game to my brother.

Yes, that's right—I watch him play the game for the cut scenes, but infrequently pick up a controller myself (even though I love the game). I'm just not worthy to control the main character, and feel very embarrassed to play just to watch him die… again… and again, and again….

The PS3 in my household was purchased by yours truly after weeks of saving many, many paychecks, so he (little bro) doesn't play when I'm not around (unlike most, he is a brother with morals dictating he is not to play what is not his without asking me, bless him). Occasionally, however, he has his slip ups, and I miss a cut scene or two. His biggest slip up came when he finished the game a few days ago...

WITHOUT ME.

You can imagine my horror, right? WRONG. You can't. It's too horrific for you to comprehend. Don't even try. I got him to tell me the game's ending, and right now I'm trying to play through the damn game from start to finish by myself, but if I've missed something and write about a dead character or some other fallacy, please let me know. I tried to check his accuracy by using Wikipedia for comparison purposes (that site is a gift from the Higher Powers, by the way, no matter what deity you serve), but their information was sorely lacking. Too bad.

Still, if I've made a huge blunder in my writing, let me know immediately. That's all I really have to say (so what was he point of that huge meandering rant preceding this phrase?).

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! The next is due out soon!


	3. Chapter 3 & Author's Note 2

The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 03

Did Vidic's eyes look more pitted and hollow since last month? Had the frown lines around his mouth grown deeper and more cruel since Desmond had seen them last? Or was it simply time and forgetfulness playing a trick on him? Desmond did no think his memory of the doctor had softened, so he attributed the subtle change to this: the doctor had aged. He'd grown noticeably older over the span of a single month; his snowy goatee was sparse.

Sitting wetly on pristine leather seats, Desmond felt every inch a prisoner. The fact that Suit #1 --named Thompson, apparently-- had the barrel of his gun shoved uncomfortably in Desmond's side did not detract from the illusion. Still, at least he was out of the rain. Be grateful for small favors, as his mother used to say, when he lived under her thumb.

"I suppose you're wondering why I've contacted you again," Vidic said.

Desmond shrugged. He had relaxed somewhat once they got in the car. In these close quarters, what with the gun so close, there wasn't much he could do in way of escape. Thompson blocked the only door, and Desmond didn't fancy fighting his way past a gun. Resignation, pure and unadulterated, was the source of his stoicism. "It crossed my mind."

Vidic smirked. "As it should have, Mr. Miles." He paused, lacing his fingers beneath his jaw. His tone lost whatever joking quality, however slight, it had contained. "I've come to ask for your help, Desmond."

Desmond snorted. "Ask? More like insist."

Vidic waved a hand dismissively. "Forever arguing the semantics. The fact is that Abstergo needs you, Mr. Miles, and I am here to make sure you deliver what we need."

That took Desmond by surprise. Hadn't they gotten what they wanted from him? They had the coordinates of the Piece (or was it 'pieces?') of Eden. "I don't understand. You've already seen Altaïr's memories about your… objective." His lips curled in distaste, thinking about the artifacts scattered across the earth and what Abstergo could do with them. Suddenly, what might have been a kernel of understanding dawned. A thought rose to Desmond's mind, insistent and mind boggling. "Don't tell me you—?"

Vidic silenced him by confirming Desmond's new suspicion. "The artifacts were gone by the time our teams got there."

"So the Assassins beat you to the punch," Desmond laughed, relieved. He had faith in Lucy and her peers. Better them than Abstergo.

Vidic glared at him. "I'm afraid not. Their resting places, though very well hidden by Altaïr, had been untouched for centuries."

"For centuries?" Why didn't Desmond like the sound of that, or the implications in the mad doctor's tone?

"Yes. Someone moved them, but not long after they were hidden—relatively speaking, that is. We're guessing thirty years, at most."

"Lemme guess," said Desmond. "You think Altaïr was the one to move them, and you wanna hook me back up to the Animus to find out exactly where. I mean, it's not like you went thirty years after him first picking up the Piece, so there's no way you could have known he'd move them later, right?"

Vidic's eyes glittered in triumph. "I thought you'd say that… but no. Someone else did it; someone close enough to Altaïr to know how his mind worked. Someone who would be able to circumvent the traps your ancestor left for those seeking the Piece. We're looking for that person."

Desmond frowned. "So what are you gonna have me do?"

"Relive Altaïr's life from the earliest memory possible; one from his boyhood, perhaps. We'll be on the look out for someone who grew up with him, who watched him develop the mind he possessed as an adult. He was about twenty-five or so when you first 'met' him, so we have quite a span to observe. It's best if we start now. We have two months."

Something about that didn't make sense. "Two months?" Desmond asked incredulously. "But this should be a cinch, right? I shouldn't need more than a few weeks, since I'm already synched with him."

Vidic laughed a hollow laugh. "Wrong."

"What?" Desmond's heart thumped loudly in his chest. He was so distracted he had all but forgotten about the gun jammed into his side.

"Essentially," Vidic explained, "the boy Altaïr and the man Altaïr are two different people."

"I don't understand."

"You shouldn't, but answer me this and you might begin to comprehend: do you think the same way you did as a child now that you are an adult?"

Desmond caught hold of an inkling of understanding. "No."

"And did you possess the same skills?"

The trickle turned into a stream. "No."

"As a child, were you completely sure of your morals or religious values? Had you fully developed your motor coordination and mental capabilities?"

The stream was now a flood. "No, no, and no."

"I can tell by the look on your face you understand," said Vidic. "But let me clarify: you synched with Altaïr when he was a full grown man, mature both in mind and body, and when you were a full grown man, likewise mature. The stability of both parties allowed a smooth, natural synchronization to occur. Had he still been in the juvenile development process, you would have had a harder time with synchronization. Added to that the fact your ancestor was your age when you became acquainted, and you have a recipe for a very innate merger indeed."

"I get that," said Desmond. It made sense, what Vidic said about the whole 'developed mind' crap. Synching up with an evolving child would be tough work for Desmond indeed, the fact hat he knew the development's final destination aside. "But there's another thing I don't get half as well."

Vidic looked annoyed. "Which is?"

Desmond gave him the most level gaze he could muster. It felt like Altaïr's death stare. "What will finding out who the hider of the Pieces do? We still won't know where they left them without accessing their memory, and you need them to do that."

Vidic gave Desmond a blank look, which slowly expanded into a smirk, then a smile, then a grin. His wolf-like face split into an expression so maniacally gleeful Desmond felt himself break out into another cold sweat. And as if that weren't bad enough, the doctor began to laugh. It was a soft sound, but chilled Desmond to the core and seemed to reverberate around the car's tiny interior.

"That, my young friend," said the doctor, still laughing, "are what the modifications I've made to the Animus are for."

* * *

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE AND/OR APOLOGY

Well, so with the help of Key 46812, I have seen the ending of Assassin's Creed for myself.

To tell you the truth, it wasn't what I had in mind.

But, no matter! I shall work with what I have been given! Let me just outline my view of the game's ending, and the events thereafter:

At the end of the game, Altaïr stands over the Piece of Eden and is unable to bring himself to destroy it. I think that after the memory scene is over, he realizes that yes, he can't destroy, it, but he can still keep other people from using it. So he breaks it into parts and hides the thing across the globe (how else did you expect it to wind up on continents that no longer exist?). After Desmond wakes up, I believe Lucy breaks Desmond out of the Abstergo lab (though that is not stated explicitly in the game), and he goes into some degree of hiding, avoiding both modern Assassin and modern Templar.

The above conjecture is what my story hangs upon. If it is are not really what happened, then consider my story AU and don't complain (please, for the sake of my sanity, don't bug me about it! But, since you likely don't care much about my mental health, leave it be for the sake of my _story_, which is probably of much greater importance to you). At least, don't complain until Assassin's Creed 2 is released and we all find out I've totally botched the storyline (finger crossed for that!).

And… that's all I have to say about that, in the words of a wise, wise man named Forest Gump. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 04

Vidic remained adamantly silent for the duration of the car ride, despite Desmond's increasingly loud attempts at getting information out of him. It took a not-so-subtle hint from Thompson (involving the butt of his pistol and Desmond's face, to be precise) to get the captive to shut up. Not too long after the incident, the car arrived at the Abstergo lab.

It hadn't changed much since Desmond's captive days. It was still cold and forbidding, and heavily guarded by more than a few thugs with guns. After a brief (but thorough) inspection, the car was let past the front gate and into the lab proper.

Desmond was blindfolded by Thompson, then escorted into the lab by both of Vidic's bodyguards. After minutes of walking (and probably some backtracking, to confuse Desmond's new assassin senses, no doubt), the hiss of an airlock and the swish of automated doors heralded Desmond's unwilling return to the Animus Laboratory.

It, like the building itself, hadn't changed much. There were still windows of bulletproof glass and dull tile walls, glowing machinery in the corners and harsh lights overhead, but the Animus, which occupied the center of the high ceilinged room, was different. Or rather, bigger. There were now a grand total of—count 'em—three slab on which the Descendant (or was it 'Descendants,' now?) could lie, arranged in starburst. The three head rests were pushed up together, with the rest of the slabs radiating outward like when the witness indicator flashed a warning. An omen, perhaps?

"Remodeling, eh?" Desmond quipped, watching the two guards leave the Lab out of the corner of his eye. The doors closed tight behind them with a hiss. No escape now. "I like what you've done with the place. Very 'mad scientist.'"

Vidic smirked. "The living quarters have been redone, as well."

"You don't say." Desmond looked around him with wary eyes. Three Animus? What was going on? "Looks like I'm gonna have some company."

"Possibly. Probably, actually, but we'll wait to determine if more memory sources are needed."

"Right." Desmond relaxed somewhat now that he was back in the Lab. Though he loathed the place, it was a least familiar, unlike the back of that stuffy car.

Something, however, was missing. It didn't take him long to figure out what. "Where's Lucy?"

Vidic, who had been strolling leisurely along the perimeter of the room, stopped dead. His face hardened from prideful to a carefully cultivated neutral. "She was… let go," he said.

"You killed her." It was not a question.

Vidic shot Desmond a warning glance. "No. She ran away." The glare cracked, then crumbled away. He was back to acting pleasant again. Key word here: acting. "The Animus has a new operator—one who is just as qualified as Lucy, if not more so. You'll meet her in due time." His smile was dry. "But for now, I suggest you change your clothes; you're sopping wet. You'll find your room in the same location as before." His wave was dismissive. "And do try to hurry. We have work to begin."

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Desmond slouched off, feet automatically carrying him to his old quarters. They, like the rest of the Lab, were relatively unchanged: the main difference was that the wide bed had been downsized to a set of bunk beds and a single twin. Another desk had been added to the ensemble, as had a nightstand.

The closet was in the same place, and it was open. With the self-consciousness born only of someone under the watchful eye of a surveillance camera, Desmond undressed himself and pulled a replica of the outfit he'd been stuck in 'back in the day' out of the closet: a white hoodie with an Abstergo logo and stonewashed jeans. His old clothes he left wadded up on the floor. No sense making Abstergo's life any easier, right?

He was about to go back out into the main hall, like an obedient little prisoner, when he remembered something. Staring hard at the wall above his old bed, he concentrated hard and called up the Eagle Vision.

The sigils, glowing bloodily in the harsh overhead lights, hadn't faded since he'd last seen them. The cryptic messages, Bible verses, and the lone Lorenz Attractor in the center leered at him with an almost sentient light. His hair on the back of his neck prickled.

The door to the room hissed open. "Well, are you coming or aren't you?" Vidic snapped irritably, striding inward.

Desmond swung his gaze around to the doctor, letting go of the Eagle Vision as easily as he released his held breath, but not before he saw that the doctor was shining a brilliant gold. So he was an assassination target, was he?

"Yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on," Desmond drawled, stalking out past Vidic. A women he hadn't seen before was typing intently on the small computer at the head of one of the Animus pods.

"Who's she?" Desmond asked as Vidic stepped into place beside him.

"Jenifer," Vidic sniffed. "Possessor of degrees in—among other things—psychology, neurology, and physics."

The woman looked up at the mention of her name. She was petite, with a tiny body and fine bone structure that reminded Desmond of a child's slight build. Her face was similarly constructed: delicate features, a snub nose, and almond eyes that were decidedly Asian. Her black hair and skin the color of parchment confirmed her race. Desmond noticed that she dimpled when she smiled, and that she had a beauty mark under her left eye.

"Hello, Dr. Vidic. Desmond." She stepped out from behind the computer and gave a tiny bow. Her voice was a flute-like soprano. "Shall we begin?"

"What? Now?" Desmond asked.

Jenifer nodded. "I'd prefer to begin immediately." She turned to Vidic and amended: "As long as it is okay with you, Doctor."

Suck up, thought Desmond sullenly.

Vidic actually smiled. "Of course, of course." He obviously had a soft spot for the suck-up. Desmond filed that away for future reference. "Let's not keep our superiors waiting." He looked at Desmond, and when he spoke his tone was noticeably sharper. "Onto the Animus, Mr. Miles."

"'Kay," he said with mock cheer, and lay down. As the fiber optic screen displaying Abstergo's logo slid to cover his field of view—flashing blue numbers, symbols, and organic compounds so fast he could hardly even register their appearance—Jenifer said: "We'll start with a basic test to see if you'll mesh with the Ancestor on the most basic level, then jump to the earliest memory available." There came a tapping sound: keystrokes on a keyboard made by tiny female fingers. "I've pinpointed one from the Ancestor's late childhood—he's about eleven. For some reason, the memories prior to that are hazy. Probably a psychological trauma of some sort, no doubt. Tell me when you're ready."

Head reeling from the woman's rambling (God, could she talk!), Desmond hesitated. "Eleven? Isn't that a bit young?" The fact that she had been looking for an even younger one was unsettling. Would they have put him in an infant's body if they could?

"We're going to see if the Ancestor has any childhood friends who would fit the criteria of the individual we're looking for," she explained, and Desmond kicked himself. He should've known. Luckily, however, Jenifer seemed pretty good tempered (better than Vidic was on his best day), and went on: "We think it would be best to begin at the earliest point possible, when the majority of the Ancestor's relationships were cultivated. He was more trusting as a child, you see. All of us were."

"Makes sense," Desmond muttered. "He was a damn cold SOB, that's for sure."

"Inform when ready," said Jenifer.

Desmond took a deep breath. "Here we go again," he said, and then: "Ready."

The world faded into light.


	5. Chapter 5

The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 05

The world was blue, and mist. White numerals and symbols glowed in the haze; concentric circles and geometric figures danced in the blue oblivion. White clouds of electricity faded in and out of sight. But that was all there was: there was no wind, no warmth, no cold, no sound. Nothing but the blue luminescence and the flickering lightning that cast no shadow.

At first, Desmond could feel nothing (not that there was anything to feel). There was a ground beneath his feet, but it was everywhere—and nowhere. Or was it just an illusion? Whatever it was, it supported the legs he couldn't feel, and that was all that mattered.

"Okay, Desmond," said a voice. It was familiar. Jenifer? "I've begun the synchronization with the Ancestor. You're hearing should be operational, as should your vocal capabilities. Can you hear me?"

The voice cleared Desmond's head. He still didn't have a body, but that was normal. He never felt like he had a body in his first moments within the Animus. He found that he could speak despite his lack of a mouth. "What happened to the automated lady? Lucy couldn't talk to me last time I was in here."

"Oh, that's just another one of the updates made over the past month or so. Handy, isn't it? Now, I'm going to put you in the Ancestor's form, but it will be up to you to become completely synched. I'm loading an environment as we speak."

There was a flash and the sound of something electronic crackling, and then buildings materialized out of the fog. People wandered out of the blue haze, faceless and stumbling, and suddenly Desmond could feel.

He held up a hand experimentally. Altaïr's hand was smaller than he remembered, and the fingers less calloused. No muscle, either, or at least very little of it.

Oh, yeah, Desmond thought. I'm a kid. Right.

"Try interacting with your environment, Desmond," Jenifer instructed. "I'm told you've done this before and don't require the tutorial session, but I'd still prefer you to take the time to become oriented. Things are different than they were last time you used the Animus."

Desmond nodded and set off at a walk for the nearest structure: a middle-class building with a cupola atop it and a merchant's stall in front. The faceless people—the ones the tutorial program produced—were gathered around, and one seemed to be an artificial rendering of a Templar. His (Its?) helmet glimmered in the blue haze.

Desmond—upon finding when he neared the figure that he was depressingly short—stood on tiptoe and studied his reflection in the helmet's polished face. There were Altaïr's dark eyes, though framed by a less lean countenance, and there was his strong nose. His hair was the same old dark, but longer. All in all, he looked like an eleven year old.

The people at the stall didn't pay him much mind. So maybe there was a reward for being a kid, after all: permanent anonymity. Desmond, in Altaïr's child-body, backed off and spied a way up the side of the nearest building: by grabbing a stone jutting out of the side of the house, he would be able to lever himself up to a window, and from there to a beam and onto the roof. He wiped the sweat off his hands and onto his pants—trousers of coarse weave and unassuming color—hunkered down, and leapt for the rock.

He missed.

Desmond yelped as he landed sharply on his butt, "What the hell?"

"Like I said," mused Jenifer, "things are different now. You're smaller—adjust for it. Just remember that the child Altaïr doesn't possess the same reflexes as the adult Altaïr. You might not be able to keep your balance in this state as well as you might think."

But Desmond wasn't listening. He had jumped for the rock again, and had managed to grab it. Only this time, however, it wasn't his height that failed him: it was his strength. His arms weren't as strong as he remembered, and he fell to the blue ground-not-ground once more.

"You're strength isn't as developed, either," Jenifer remarked.

Desmond growled and stood. "I got that part." He took another flying leap, this time after studying the wall. He let his momentum drive him upward: from peg to window to beam without slowing down. Only, when he got to the beam, he realized just how much difference the balance thing actually made in his climbing abilities. He fell, and lost synchronization completely. Jenifer had to reboot him.

Eventually, after playing around in the fake world with his new body, he realized that he could hardly climb, but guards paid him little mind when he finally managed to scale something out of the ordinary. His strength sucked and his reflexes were beyond poor, but remaining anonymous was as easy as pie—by an ironic twist of fate, it was getting noticed that was difficult. He tried to get the guards' attention on purpose a few times, mainly by getting purposefully caught while pick pocketing, but found that when they did catch up to him all they did was cuff him on the ear, reprieve him of his prize, and send him sprawling on his way. Different, to say the very least. Falling from great heights was his biggest problem. Desmond just couldn't get used to not being able to get to anything, like he used to. The freedom denied him was excruciating: he didn't know what he had until it left him.

"I think I'm ready for the real thing," he said after enough practice. "Load me, Jen."

"Jenifer," the technician corrected. "I'm Jenifer, not Jen."

"Fine, fine, keep your shirt on: load me, Jenifer."

"Right. Now, remember: it will feel like you're controlling Altaïr, but in reality you're just along for the ride. Try to observe things from a futuristic point of view, and keep an eye out for potential candidates of the Piece's relocater. Don't lose yourself in there."

"Roger that," said Desmond impatiently. "Now load me up!"

"Downloading memory," said Jenifer, and the blue gave way to brilliant color.


	6. Chapter 6 & Author's Note 3

The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 06

Smoke. Heat. Terror. These were the things the boy woke to. That and screaming. He could hear his mother from the next room, gibbering nonsensical phrases characterized by scarlet overcurrents of pain.

His first reaction was to leap from his pallet by the kitchen fire (the nights were getting cold), but when he did he found that the upper portion of the room was filled with smoke. Coughing, he crouched beneath the fumes and began to crawl frantically towards the sound of his mother's voice. He had just reached the mouth of the door when a hand grabbed his arm and another covered his mouth.

He caught the familiar scent of his sister. She was two years his elder, and stronger than him, so he made more noise than progress as he tried to get away.

"Be quiet, brother!" she hissed as he struggled. When he complied, she spun him around to face her. Her normally russet skin as pale and her thick hair was coated in ash.

"But mother is—" he insisted, glancing towards the door. The heat in the room was sweltering. Was there a fire? "What's going on?"

Big sister shushed him and shook her head. "There's no hope for her now." Quickly, she explained to the boy that bandits had attacked the small settlement the sibling's father had built long ago. "They'll want mother and me to sell on the slave market, and will keep us alive—but not you. They don't trade older boys. They'll kill you if they see you. You have to get away."

From the next room came a cacophony of shouts and another hoarse cry from the children's mother. Footsteps thudded on the earth floor. Big sister gripped his shoulders tightly.

"Listen to me. I'll stall them for as a long as I can, but you need to escape. Go back into the kitchen and climb out the smoke hole. There's a bale of hay by the western wall—jump into it. It will break your fall. Then go to the barn and take the horse." She pushed him away from her and hurriedly sketched a crude map on the dirt floor. "Ride north as hard as you can and find the village marked by flags with this symbol." She sketched a strangely rounded triangle above the map then swept out the pictures with her foot. "They're ten miles away at the most. Find a man in a white hood and tell him to come here quickly—he'll know what to do. Hurry!" She pulled him close for a moment and said into his hair "be safe." Then she pushed him back into the kitchen and disappeared into the gloom.

His sister's words wouldn't penetrate his brain at a conscious level, but his feet nevertheless carried him into the kitchen and to the crates of foodstuffs pilled high against the wall. Mechanically he climbed them and clumsily levered himself out of the smoke hole. Jumping into the hay was easy: he and his siblings had done it hundreds of times as children, though they had gone up a ladder and not out a soot-encrusted hole. Finding the stable was also simple. He'd had currying duty so many times the route was automatic. It was only when he had halfway clambered up the elderly piebald mare who had been his friend since childhood he realized what was going on. He might never see his mother or his sister again. Tears stung his eyes.

He was halfway out of the stable when he saw the house. Men, at least eight, burst out of the flaming building carrying two limp forms over their shoulders. They laughed and smiled as the boy's beloved home burnt to the ground, and the young man felt a cold rage fill the numbness lapping at his heart. His mother, his sister, and now his home… A cry burst from him, and he dug his heels into the mare's sides, directing her to charge straight at the group of men.

The ones carrying the limp forms and objects pilfered from the house scattered, but two of them stood their ground. From a scabbard, one drew a sword. The other hefted a heavy club. When the boy on horseback neared them, the second swung his weapon directly at the horse's front legs. A sickening crunch later and the boy was tumbling off the horse's back as the animal careened to a stop, whinnying in pain as it limped on a newly broken foreleg.

The boy sat up, mouth full of dirt. With a howl he threw himself at the man with the sword, but was repelled by a kick to his face. His nose streamed blood.

"Kid thinks he's a hero," the thug remarked. "No place in the slave caravan, not for you, boy. Can I kill him?"

This last was directed at the man with the club, who replied: "We've got no use for him. But make it quick. We still have to catch up with the others."

The boy stared up at them both with hate-filled eyes. More men, at least five of the ones with no burden, approached and formed a circle around the three, hooting and hollering for sport.

The boy didn't seem to hear. He launched himself at his enemies, but the man with the sword sidestepped him and smacked him on the back of the head with the sword's flat. "Have to do better than that," he laughed as the boy tumbled to the dirt. Again, the boy tried to grab him, but failed. He lay sprawled on the ground. Nearby, the flaming wreck of his home caved in, shooting sparks at the night sky.

"Come on, get up," said the swordsman. He walked to stand over the boy. "Don't give up now."

The boy thought, and thought hard. This man was too fast to touch and too strong to grapple with. The boy would have to rely on his wits. He took a clod of dirt into his hand and when the swordsman was close enough he flung it into the man's leering eyes.

"What the—" the thug swore. The boy leapt at him and began to claw at the man's skin.

He'd forgotten about the bandit with the club, however, who promptly plucked the boy off the swordsman by the back of his shirt. The boy twisted and sank his teeth into the bandit's meaty palm, and the outlaw yelped and shook him off. Then he delivered a vicious blow to the boy's forehead with his heavy club. The boy saw stars as he collapsed to the dirt, head streaming blood.

Nursing his bitten hand, the man said: "Kill him. We don't need any more delays."

"My pleasure," the swordsman sneered. He hefted the blade, but never got to bring it down. A knife whistled from out of nowhere and sank into his throat. He crumpled where he stood.

It all happened very quickly then. Though the boy's eyes swam with pain and disorientation, he saw the men in white appear like wraiths out of the darkness and, one by one, pick off the bandits, felling them with blade and arrow and fist. Though blood coursed out of the wound on his forehead and into his eyes, turning the world scarlet, the men's cloaks were ghostly in the night. They were as silent as specters, and just as swift. The shouts of the bandits and the ring of steel on bone made the boy's head pound and his eyes water, but soon the ruckus quieted.

Bandits lay spread on the ground, dead or dying. The men in white gathered around the glowing wreckage of the boy's home, heads bowed solemnly. They were silent, but then one spoke:

"Survivors?"

There was a ripple around the circle. "None."

That was when the boy surged to his feet, coughing. Ash drifted from the flaming house to coat his lungs, making it hard to breathe. At the sound, two men were at his side in a flash. The first held a dagger poised to throw. The second was empty handed.

"A bandit's whelp?" the dagger-holder asked. The empty handed one shook his head.

"I don't think so. The bandits were killing him when we got here. Trying to, at least." He turned and called: "We have a survivor!"

The boy blinked; his head throbbed. Behind the two men, others gathered. Were the ghosts going to take him away now? They must have come for his life, the boy decided, head spinning. In the distance, the boy's home caved in, a gout of flame arcing heavenward. Only the stable remained untouched by flame.

The boy remembered the horse suddenly. "Where's my horse?" he slurred. Words came slowly; he had to fight to remember how to form them.

The ghosts looked at one another.

"Her leg's broken," the boy persisted, words growing less and less coherent. The world was growing dark, the crimson of his bloodied eye wavering on black. "Where is she?" His legs wobbled and he stumbled forward. The empty handed man caught him and held him up.

"You want to help the horse?" one man asked incredulously.

The boy shook his head. "I can't help her."

"Then why look for her?"

"To put her …out of her misery," he gasped in pain. "I have to do it. No one else will."

His words were met with deep silence, and then the man released the boy. From his side he drew a knife. "Find your horse," he said, "and do as you must."

The boy looked at the dagger, and momentarily forgot what he needed to use it for. Absently he noticed that the man's ring finger was gone. He must have worked in a mill at some point, to have lost it. With shaking fingers the boy took the knife. As if on cue, a horse's neigh split the night, and the boy wearily followed the sound. A drive he could not begin to fathom compelled him to commit this final act, its reason inexplicable. A company of ghosts watched his every move.

The mare lay in a ditch, panting. Her eye rolled wildly in the socket, and as the boy approached she struggled feebly. Her leg was bent nearly in half, folding backwards at the joint.

"Shh," he murmured. "It's all right." He climbed down to the horse and pulled its head into his lap. It quieted beneath his touch; the mare knew his scent. "You'll be okay."

And then he plunged the knife into the trusting animal's throat.

The beast kicked, blood staining its dappled hide, and tried to neigh. All that came out was a jet of blood and a wet gurgle. Warm liquid coursed over the boy's hands when he pulled the knife back out, but he did not flinch away.

The ghosts behind him murmured, perhaps in approval.

Why did he feel, just as surely as he had felt the mare's dying spasm, as if he had cut himself off from something important, just as he had cut short the mare's life?

When the mare stopped kicking and the last spark of light left her eye, the boy stood. Weakly he stumbled from the ditch and into the empty handed man's arms.

"You did well, boy," the man said. The boy heard his voice as if from a great distance. "You have the will of an assassin."

"Tired," the boy murmured, knees giving out for the final time. The man supported him.

"Your family is dead. Do you hear?"

Though all the boy wanted was to give in to the darkness, he felt tears sting his eye, keeping him alert. Mutely, he nodded against the man's waist.

The man spoke to the other ghosts. Or had the man called them assassins? Whatever. The boy didn't really care. He was just too tired. "We'll take him with us." Though no one contested this decision, he continued: "He has shown courage and purpose despite his grief. He could be of great use to us. And he has nowhere else to go; no one to miss him and no ties to his past. He's perfect."

The boy's eyes fluttered open. Take? They were taking him? Where? Why? With the last ounce of strength he possessed, he looked up and saw the face of his savior.

The man caught his gaze with one jewel bright black eye and one milky eye; he had obviously been partially blinded by the scar that bisected the socket. He had a coarse black beard and a thin mouth that was far from handsome, but to the boy he looked like a god: powerful and wise.

"What is you name, boy?" he asked.

The boy blinked. "Name?" What was his name? Why couldn't he remember?

The man passed a hand over the boy's head wound. "Ah. I see." He looked into the boy's face, and before the boy lost consciousness he heard the words that would shape the rest of his young life, and the lives of all the others he would intersect:

"Your name does not matter anymore, _Ibn La-Ahad_, Son of None, for you are the student of Al Maulim. Through him, you will earn your name, and the right to bear it."

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE AND/OR INFURAITING RAVE

Hello. I'd like to issue a 'Thanks' to anyone who's taken the time to comment.

So: thanks.

I'd like to issue another set of thanks to the people who've faved either me or my story. There's getting to be a bunch.

So: thanks.

Blah, blah, blah, I bought the Assassin's Creed art book/strategy guide package. And an Assassin's Creed game carrying case thing. I'm such a dork: as soon as I got the crate (adorned with some very pretty artwork of Altaïr, I should mention) I unhooked my PS3 from the TV and packed it all up in my new box of prettiness. Then, after the fact, I realized that I couldn't play my games as long as it was in there and had to spend my time unpacking it again.

I told you: I'm not that smart. Maybe when it comes to writing, but not anything else (least of all common sense). When I have time to think over decisions I can be intelligent, sure, but I'm impulsive so it completely negates that fact, right?

But, anyway, who cares? You probably don't', ha ha. I'll bet you just want me to shut up so you can see what happens to the child Altaïr, right? I'll bet all you want is for me to shut up and WRITE what happens to the child Altaïr, right? I'm right, right?

Stalling is fun! I'll bet I'm making you mad, aren't I?

That's all for now! Bye bye! dodges flying tomatoes

(NOTE: In case any of you were wondering, I took an Evilness quiz on Facebook the other day and I'm "Very Evil." Your suspicions have been proven at last!)


	7. Chapter 7 & Author's Quibble

The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 07

"Desmond... Desmond!"

Desmond blinked awake. He was lying on the Animus. Jenifer was standing over him, looking concerned. So was Dr. Vidic, but his look was characterized by annoyance as opposed to anything displaying a semblance of anxiousness.

"Did I… 'he,' I mean—did he black out?" Desmond asked the doctors. There was a crick in the small of his back, and when he sat up it popped loudly and painfully back into rights.

Jenifer took his wrist into one of her tiny hands and began to check his pulse. When she dropped it she removed a pen light from her pocket and shined it into Desmond's eyes. "No sign of trauma," she muttered, and made a mark on her clipboard.

"Is there any reason in particular why we stopped?" Vidic asked caustically. Jenifer turned to him with a sheepish look. "After all, we only just got started. Or were your assertions of superiority over my last bleeding-heart assistant an exaggeration?"

Desmond realized that the "bleeding heart" Vidic spoke of was Lucy, and frowned. Just because she wanted to make sure Desmond survived didn't mean she was a "bleeding heart." She was an assassin, for Chrissake!

"No, sir," said Jenifer. "But when the Ancestor lost consciousness, it appeared as though synchronization was lost, even though Desmond was still rooted firmly inside his Ancestor's memories. I feared that, in such a confused state, the Animus might overload. It wasn't meant to handle that complex of an existence. Nor was I sure of what the effect of such a state would have on Desmond. What would the Animus be without memories to read?"

Smooth, Desmond thought with a smirk. Jenifer, in reality, wasn't that different from Lucy. She had worried about Desmond, but disguised her concern for him as concern for the machine. That was the only way Vidic would commend her for her disruption of the session. The mad doctor felt more for his computers than he did for people.

Vidic nodded sagely. "I see. Good work, Jenifer."

She looked down, demure, but Desmond could see the triumph shining in her eyes when she said: "Thank you." Then she looked at Desmond. Her brisk turnaround to 'all business' mode was striking. "Now, Desmond, I think it might be best for you to get some rest. I'm going to take the time to investigate the state of mind you discovered; see if I can figure out if it's dangerous or not. We'll resume in the morning."

Desmond glanced towards the windows. He'd spent more time in the machine than he'd thought: it was already dark outside. "Sure. I'll be in my room."

Jenifer offered him a small smile, then focused her attention on the petite computer in front of her. Vidic waked from the room without another word, the air locked doors swishing shut firmly behind him.

Desmond wandered around the lab for a few minutes, stretching his legs. He couldn't see anything outside the windows, and there was nothing to do in his room.

"Hey, Jenifer?" he called from his quarter's door.

"Yes?" She sounded like a mother coping with a cranky child while she was trying to get something important done. "What is it?"

"Which bed do I sleep in?" The twin and the bunks were the same size (or maybe the single was a bit bigger; it was hard to say) but still, Desmond felt he had to ask.

"Pick," Jenifer sighed. "It doesn't really matter."

"Okay. Thanks." He thought a moment. "Hey, Jenifer?"

This time the woman's voice was noticeably impatient. She actually looked up from the computer. "Yes, Desmond?"

He smiled. "Nothing. I just like teasing you." Then, smiling at her shocked face, he ducked back into his room. The doors immediately closed, and Desmond heard the unmistakable pop of a lock engaging. He was stuck inside. With not much else to do, he climbed up onto the higher of the two bunks and engaged his Eagle Vision.

The sigils on the wall glowed eerily, and in the throws of the Vision Desmond saw that their light had stained the room red. He held his hands up in front of him, and idly noted how they seemed to be covered in blood. The notion chilled him, so he shut his eyes quickly and willed the Sight away.

Then, with nothing else to do, Desmond took off his shoes and fell asleep. Or tried to. The images of Altaïr being beaten played and replayed with horrifying clarity behind his eyelids. And then they bled over to the sight of the kid killing the horse…

_Shit,_ thought Desmond, staring blankly at the ceiling. _That kid had it rough. Oh well, at least he won't remember it when he wakes up._ Desmond stifled a yawn, then rolled over and fell asleep.

What seemed like moments later, he was awakened to the vibrations of an earthquake.

He bolted upright, a shout forming on his tongue, but scowled he when realized that the so-called 'earthquake' was really Dr. Vidic's version of a 'good morning.' The man, wolfish grin on full display, had been shaking the bunk bed with all his might.

"Good morning, Mr. Miles," he said, evidently in a good mood. "Sleep well?"

"If you call sleeping on a mattress as thin as a piece of paper good, then yeah, I did, actually," Desmond grunted, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The sarcasm was lost on the doctor, who ignored him as per usual. Not bothering with the cheap steel ladder, Desmond jumped to the floor. "What time is it?" he asked through a yawn. His clothes were rumpled; he'd slept in them.

"The perfect time to begin!" said the doctor. Desmond couldn't decide if he liked the mean Vidic or the nice Vidic better. Jekyll and Hyde were both pretty creepy, as it were… and both were criminally annoying. "Now, come and get on the Animus so we can start the day's work." Behind him the door whooshed open, letting in the morning sunlight.

Desmond followed Vidic from the room. Steaming cup of coffee in one hand, the other typing up a storm, Jenifer stood over the Animus's computer with a look of intense concentration on her face. When the men entered, she looked up and smiled. "Good morning."

Desmond nodded at her and went to the nearest Animus table. "What're we doing today?"

Jenifer paused and typed a sequence into the computer. "We're continuing the viewing of the Ancestor's adolescence, starting from his first days at the Assassin's base in Masyaf."

Desmond thought a moment. "Am I gonna get a look at his training and stuff?"

"Hopefully," Jenifer replied. "To see the way his mind developed is our goal, and since his training is what shaped him it would be ideal to view the step by step way he was raised." Her face melted from informative to concerned. Her deep brown eyes were warm. "Do you think you'll be okay? I know being someone else must be disorienting."

Desmond could have answered her, could have reassured her that yes, he'd be fine, but the truth was that he felt no need to be nice to his captors, even ones as pleasant as Jenifer. So, rather than say anything, Desmond lay back on the machine and let the Animus's fiber optic screen pull him a thousand years into the past, leaving the pretty Jenifer behind to wonder.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE

So the next chapter is already done... MWA HA HA!!! I ARE EVIL!!!! YES I ARE!!! ([dodges flying produce) Ciao!

So this post signifies the archival of my historic 10.000 word. And that word is...

The.

So unassuming, but where would we be without it? The stoneage, that's where. We graduated from "Where dinosaur, woman?" to "I say, good lady, but where did the dinosuar I've been pursuing run off to?" The word 'the' is vastly overlooked and severely underprivledged, never given the note and honor it deserves. Let's take a moment of silence to honor the word 'the,' our esteemed and beloved literary friend.

Thank you!


	8. Chapter 8 & Author's Homecoming of DOOM

The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 08

The boy awoke in a bed with a soft mattress and a real pillow. It was filled with feathers, from the feel, which was odd: his family had never been able to afford anything softer than hay. Sister had always said…

Said…

A face, warm and pretty, swam in front of his eyes, but it began to fade away. Desperately he grasped at the warmth of her eyes, the sound of her voice, the softness of her hair, but it did no good: it was like grasping at thistledown. Every time he seemed to get near the memory it blew away—his attention disturbed it. They were opposite ends of a magnet, he and this memory. What disturbed him even more, however, was that he could remember nothing else besides this shadowy face. Not even his own name.

Lying still on the bed, the boy concentrated, trying his best to recall something, _anything, _about the past prior to the too-soft pillow and bed. What trickled into his mind's eye were images of fire, of blood, of fleeting white shapes in the dark, and of a horse. A dying horse. Or was it a murdered one? Dimly he could see a young hand that looked suspiciously like his own end the beast's life. Had he really done that? He couldn't say for sure.

Sun was shining through an open window onto his face. His head reeled when he sat up, and when he put a hand to it he found that it was covered in bandages. He squeezed his eyes shut against the light.

A door opened somewhere to his left. "Ah. You're awake, Altaïr."

The boy sat up. What was that last word? "Altaïr?"

A tall man strode slowly into the room. He wore an air of utter calm and self-assurance that was nearly as tangible as his black robes and dark beard. He didn't smile at the boy, exactly, but his eyes weren't hard, and the boy took comfort in this. "That is your name."

The boy blinked and mouthed the syllables, tasting the words on his tongue, learning the feel of them. "Altaïr."

"Are you hungry?" the man asked, and the boy's—no, Altaïr's—stomach grumbled in response. Mutely, he nodded, and the man held out a bowl full of something steamy that smelled of spices. Altaïr took it in shaking hands, tasted it hesitantly, then devoured the meal: a stew of rabbit and vegetables. The older man looked on in silence.

When the boy finished, he balanced the bowl on his knees. "Where am I?"

"Masyaf," the man answered. His right eye, milky and blind, mimicked the movements of his black left, yet saw nothing. Still, Altaïr felt that the man could somehow see everything, be the things thoughts or emotions or actions or _anything_. He felt like a mouse caught beneath an eagle's eye.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Al Maulim," said the man.

"And who am I?"

This seemed to take Al Maulim off guard. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Altaïr put his head in his hands, cradling his temples in small fingers. "There's nothing in my head from before today. Why is this?"

A gentle hand ruffled his short hair, and Altaïr looked up. Al Maulim said: "You suffered a nasty head wound, child." His voice was mild. "Sometimes, when one is hit in that way, memories fly to the wind as if struck from your mind as a seed is struck from the stalk. You may recover your past, in time, and re-gather the kernels of your memory, but…"

"But for now, nothing," Altaïr said slowly. His eyes, bright as stars but black as night, searched Al Maulim's face. "Who _was_ I, then?"

"I… do not know," Al Maulim answered, hesitant. In soft words he explained to the boy of the demise of his family and all who lived at their steading; the way his sister and mother had been carried off into the night by rogues. The fleeting white shapes—Assassins, Altaïr learned—had been unable to catch them, though they had killed many stragglers. "We came when we saw the smoke, but were too late. You were the only one we saved. It will be nigh impossible to find your family… if the bandits did not kill them out of spite for their fallen, that is."

If Al Maulim was expecting tears, he was disappointed. Altaïr sat still for a little while, mind in a distant place, but eventually came back to the present with dry eyes. He felt no grief at the death of those he used to know—only a twinge of melancholy at the thought of the warm face hovering on the edges of his memory lying dead in a ditch somewhere, or being held in the pens of slave drivers. It was as if he'd never known either her, the vague girl from his memory, or the others, and lamenting over the death of a stranger seemed… like a waste. Stupid, in fact. So he simply said: "I see. What is to become of me now, seeing as how I know no other face than yours?"

For a moment, the boy Altaïr thought Al Maulim was glaring at him. Then he realized that the man's eyes were glowing not with rage, but an impassioned fervor. His words were hushed, reverent, and commanding. "My child… how would you like to change the world?"

* * *

Blue mist, crackling with electric numbers and figures, swirled around him. Desmond felt himself standing once again on nothing as a cool voice, that of the automated female taken on by the Animus's AI, soothingly whispered: "Fast forwarding memory, to a more recent one…"

* * *

Altaïr hefted the light practice sword with conditioned ease, swinging it in a viper's lightning quick arc at his sparring partner's block. The boy he faced, nearly two years his senior, lost his balance and tumbled to the ground. The bout's overseer, a fourth-rank Assassin Altaïr fancied as something of a fool, clapped and whistled. 

"Match—Altaïr!"

The older boy rolled to his feet and stretched. "Looks like you win again."

Altaïr nodded politely. He'd only lost in sword matches twice, both times during his first week as a novice. The bouts had been lost to Assassins of considerably higher rank, too. Altaïr had improved at an alarming rate, and though several of the boys training as Assassins looked at him with contemptuous eyes, none dared cross him… or his sword arm.

Altaïr held out his hand and helped his opponent to his feet. He got a smile in return, but it was chilly. No matter. He had grown used to the smiles— those that were all at once respectful, wary, and scornful—over his four month stay at Masyaf. The days since his initiation as a novice had been filled with rivalry; it seemed Altaïr was a natural, which earned the other novice's resentment. Being the odd man out did have its perks, however: the other boys had given him the best bunk in the novice barracks, and let him head the line at meal times. This last was the best part, seeing as how the novice quarters were on the opposite side of the compound as the kitchens. By the time the youngest boys got to the kitchen at meal times, the best of the food had been taken by the apprentices, cadets, and soldiers, whose quarters were more close. What was left was nutritious, but was usually cold and consisted of nameless scraps that lacked much flavor. The fact that Altaïr got the head of the novice line meant he had the pick of the meal, and the choicest pieces, giving him more strength in the ring than his fellows.

"You did well today," the instructor said as Altaïr left the sparring pen. "I'm amazed at how fast you've managed to improve. The best of the novices—and the newest one, at that!"

Altaïr did not smile. He knew it would only serve to alienate him even further from his peers. "I thank you."

"Put away your blade," the fourth-rank said warmly. "It's nearly time for your—" His words were cut off when a gray-robed soldier ran up, calling: "Where is Altaïr?"

Altaïr stepped forward. "Here," he said. Dimly he noticed the other novices eyeing him and the soldier, trading whispers behind their hands. He ignored them.

"Al Maulim wishes to speak with you," the soldier said, placing a hand on Altaïr's shoulder. "In the library. You'd best hurry—I'd not deign to keep a man like the Master waiting."

"You heard him, boy!" barked the fourth-rank, who had been looking on all the while with keen interest. All his warmth had faded in the presence of his equal. Roughly he jerked the training sword from Altaïr's grasp and smacked the boy on the backs of his calves with it. "Make time!"

The stinging smack jolted Altaïr into a trot. As he ran towards the library's stairs, the soldier and instructor began to talk quietly together, casting glances at him as he ran. He paid them no mind. He was preoccupied by the nerves making his stomach to churn. He had not seen Al Maulim in nearly a month; the Master had checked on him once since his start as a novice, but had not deigned to visit a second time. What could he want _now_?

The interior of the library was a welcome relief from the outside sun. The marble absorbed the cool shadows, and the light air dried the sweat from his brow as he slowed his pace. He did not wish to appear panicked in front of Al Maulim. Still, he reached the Master's favored desk in a very short amount of time.

Al Maulim stood staring out the open window, his shoulders erect and back straight. Altaïr cleared his throat to make himself known, and when the Master turned around the boy delivered a sharp bow. "You wished to see me, Master?"

"Ah, yes," Al Maulim said, as if noticing him for the first time. "Altaïr. How goes the training?"

Altaïr thought on that then slowly formed the words: "It goes well, Master. I've progressed far, I think."

Al Maulim's eyes narrowed. "And the other novices?"

"They treat me as their better, Master," Altaïr said, deciding that honesty was the best policy. "But in their hearts I fear they resent me." Then, thinking about the courtyard: "They talk behind their hands when they think I will not notice."

Al Maulim nodded sagely. "I suspected as much. Your instructors praise you—too highly, perhaps, as would make your peers comfortable."

Altaïr cast down his eyes. "It is so."

Silences descend upon them. "You've confirmed my fears," said Al Maulim, after a fashion. "It was the same with me, when I climbed my way up the ranks years ago." He lapsed into silence again. "That being said, I have made a decision that, in light of your progress and social situation, will prove beneficial to both you and the Brotherhood."

"Which is?"

Al Maulim's eyes glittered. "Why, my newest Apprentice, a promotion!"

* * *

For the second time that day, the Animus murmured: "Fast forwarding memory, to a more recent one," in Desmond's ear.

* * *

"You'll be rooming with a boy named Malik," Al Maulim said brusquely as he led Altaïr up a long flight of stairs in the compound's westernmost tower. They were ascending to the Apprentice's quarters. Each boy shared a room with a roommate, and Altaïr was about to meet his. "He's an Apprentice, like you, and shows a remarkable level of maturity." They reached a landing that branched off into a hallway lined with heavy wooden doors, and with a purposeful gate Al Maulim led Altaïr to the farthest one. He pushed it open with an arm. "Here we are. I do not know if Malik is in or not, but we shall see…" 

Altaïr followed Al Maulim into the room, staring with appreciative eyes at the wide window on the western wall, the two beds with thick mattresses, and the timber chests at the foot of each.

A boy, maybe two years Altaïr's senior with a beak-like nose and small eyes, leapt up from one of the two beds and bowed from the waist at the site of his Master. "Al Maulim!"

"Malik," Al Maulim intoned solemnly. "I understand that you do not share your quarters with a fellow apprentice."

Malik looked nervous, but tried not to show it. His eyes flickered at Altaïr, then back to the Master. "No, sir," he said quickly. "There are an odd number of Apprentices at this time."

"Not anymore," said Al Maulim. "Meet your newest comrade-in-arms: Altaïr." And with that, he shoved the boy further into the room. Turning his back on Malik, he said: "There are Apprentice robes in the trunk, and a sword. I leave you to your studies." Then he walked out of the room.

The two boys stood facing one another, silent. Malik was the fist to speak.

"Welcome to Apprenticeship," he said.

"I thank you," said Altaïr.

The two lapsed into yet another silence. Finally, Malik asked: "So… how did you find your way into the Brotherhood?"

In a voice characterized by naught but monotony, Altaïr related how he came to know Al Maulim. Malik listened with interested eyes.

"I am sorry," he said, "about your family."

Altaïr shrugged. "I don't remember them." Then, realizing that if he was to spend the next however many years living alongside this boy, Altaïr decided that maybe getting to know him was a good thing. "And your family?"

Malik smiled, the first time he had done so. "My uncle is a merchant who owed Al Maulim a favor, of sorts. When my mother and father died in my youth, he sent me here to learn to serve my country. A noble pursuance, he said."

Altaïr was of a different opinion. From the sound of things, Malik's uncle had wanted to be rid of the boy, but he declined mentioning this to his new friend.

"Would you like me to show you around the Apprentice Hall?" Malik asked, trying to be welcoming and helpful. "I can take you to the sparring rink and the class areas so you will not be lost when you begin instruction tomorrow."

Altaïr gave him a curt nod, but softened the harsh gesture with something highly unusual: a smile. It was small, and had trouble reaching his eyes, but it softened his features enough so they appeared almost friendly…

* * *

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTES & APOLOGIES

I am SUCH a dork.

I went to Alaska for the holidays, and guess what I came home with? A cool Alaskan knife? No. A moose sculpture? No. Something Alaskany? No.

I came home with a figurine of Altaïr as a souvenir.

Seriously. I travelled several thousands of miles in order to completely bypass the memorable Alaskan keepsakes for a plastic person about seven inches tall. With removable swords and a working hidden blade, but I digress. It rocks, but my parents think I'm a total nut job. Not that they didn't before, but… you get it, right? I thought so. You're just cool like that, aren't you?

Anyway… here is my approximation of the Assassin ranking system (it corresponds with the level-ups in the game, with a few modifications were the hidden blade is concerned. In my version, you don't get a hidden blade/missing finger until you reach rank 7).

0-- Novice

1-- Apprentice

2-- Cadet

3-- Instructor

4-- Teacher

5-- Soldier

6--Guard (Infantryman)

7--Assassin

8-- Master Assassin

9-- Grandmaster Assassin

10--The Master

The most skilled of the Grandmasters becomes The Master, or leader of the Assassins. Any individual, as long as they have attained rank 7 or higher, is eligible for becoming a Bureau leader (though rank 8's are more eligible than 7's, 9's more so than 8's, etc). The selection of a Bureau leader is usually made by discerning their aptitude as a tactician (as opposed to physical prowess). Most are too old or too damaged to take on regular duties; otherwise they would be used in the field.

Anyway… that's all for now. I'm too tired to concoct a witty note for you guys today, so content yourselves with the above.

Oh, and I'm sorry this chapter was kinda plot-less… but you had to meet Malik. I'll try to make the next chapter more eventful. See ya!


	9. Chapter 9 & Author HooHa

The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 09

"Exiting Animus…"

Groggily, Desmond blinked up at the Lab's harsh overhead lights. A draft, perpetuated by the Animus's screen sliding back into the slab's cool metal face, made his eyeballs dry out, so when he sat up he ground the pads of his fingers into their sockets until his ducts produced the necessary tears.

"We're done for the day, Mr. Miles," said Vidic. He seemed in a good mood. "You can rest now. I'll have your dinner brought in." He turned to go, but stopped when Desmond spoke to him.

"Was that the 'Malik' I think it was?" Desmond asked, leaning his arms on his thighs. "I thought he hated Altaïr." The thought of them being students together—roommates, no less!—was near preposterous, and the thought of them being friends even more so. Even after Altaïr proved himself, Malik had seemed wary of the man, like he was afraid of him.

Vidic waved a hand dismissively, as if the gesture would close the subject. "The hate started after the death of Kadar, Malik's younger brother. From what Jenifer and I have deduced, the two of them were close in their adolescence."

"So he's the one you're after?"

"Perhaps." Vidic shrugged and gave the ceiling a thoughtful look. "Perhaps not. But he is a very promising candidate, don't you think? After all, he was alive when the Piece was hidden, and he knew Altaïr very well." He smiled at Desmond, and the look was harsh. "Well enough, perhaps, to be the one we're looking for. Thank you, Mr. Miles, for giving me part of the information I need." Then the doctor finally did leave, and Desmond was left with naught but questions.

Desmond sat on the Animus a while longer, thinking. Could Malik, one of Altaïr's most unfriendly—yet true—supporters, truly be the one Abstergo was after? He was a master Assassin, Desmond had to admit, and would know the traps set by Altaïr, but could he—lacking one arm, as he later would—get past them unscathed, despite his skill? Desmond didn't know.

Desmond glanced at the windows: all were dark, the night outside as black as spilled ink. "Yo, Jen," he said to the typing woman at his side.

She looked up, annoyed. "What is it, Desmond?"

"How come I haven't had to fight anybody yet?"

Jenifer sighed: "Your Ancestor is still a trainee, Desmond. He won't seriously fight anyone for years, and won't assassinate anyone for even longer." She turned back to the keyboard. "Right now, we're focusing our attention on his growth and social relationships, as opposed to his actions as we did last time."

Desmond frowned and persisted. "But there hasn't been any action!"

Jenifer's lips puckered. "You men," she snorted. "Always finding entertainment in blood and sweat. We can't you just sit back and enjoy the… oh, I don't know, _historical_ aspects of your time in the Animus? If I were you, I would _drink_ in the detail. That culture was lost to us so many years ago—it's a shame we don't have an entire team studying your memories! Think of all we could learn! Why you men can't see that is beyond me…" She fell into muttering dark incoherencies.

Desmond shrugged. "Okay, you win. I'm an ignorant pig who likes swords. Happy now?"

"Marginally. Now go eat and get to bed." She wrinkled her nose. "And take a shower. When was the last time you bathed?"

Desmond hopped off the Animus and stretched. "Morning I got here."

"Smells like longer."

"And I suppose_ you'd_ smell like a rosebush if you didn't get a chance to change your clothes for days?"

"At least I'd shower." Jenifer fluttered her tiny hands at him, effectively shooing him away. "Move it, Desmond! I have work to do!"

Desmond slouched off, hands in his pockets, muttering, "Yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on… or don't. That's okay, too."

Luckily, Jenifer didn't hear.

After a meal and a shower (a shower he was painfully aware of being on camera for the duration of), Desmond wrapped a towel around his waist and walked into his bedroom. His old clothes, which he had left lying on the floor by the closet, were gone, and a new uniform had been left folded neatly on the lower bunk bed. He dressed, trying his best to keep covered by the flimsy towel, without a doubt in his mind he was giving the security guards a good laugh at his expense.

Desmond was tired, but before he went off to bed he made sure to check beneath the closet shelves for a pass key to the doors, like he'd found last time. Unfortunately, the Abstergo administrators had wised up and made sure to not leave anything behind for him. And the old passkey—he still remembered it from his old days—didn't work anymore: he made sure to try it.

Remembering the passkey got him to thinking about Lucy. Where was she? After she had covered his getaway, Desmond had seen her return to the Lab like a docile little lamb. Now she was gone; Vidic claimed she ran away. But _how _had she escaped? It had been hard enough with the two of them working together. Had Lucy found any of the Assassins who were still alive? Or was she alone; the very last of the Brotherhood to walk free on the earth?

It's pointless to think about it, Desmond decided as he climbed onto his bunk. Absolutely pointless. Even if she did get out, there'd be no way for her to contact him, nor he her. Lucy would be of no help to him. It was best to just forget her.

But that proved hard as Desmond lay awake on his back in the dark. He had grown close to the woman in the two weeks he had known her. Unfailingly optimistic was Lucy; she always had a smile to offer. Doubtless she would be able to cheer him up would she were here.

"Maybe I should take a leaf out of her book," Desmond whispered at the ceiling. "Try to have a little faith. See where that gets me."

Smiling, Desmond rolled over and dropped off. Someone would come. Lucy wouldn't—_couldn't_—let him down.

Desmond was not alone; he could feel it.

* * *

* * *

AUTHOR HOO-HA

I think that Desmond and Lucy would make the cutest couple EVER. Desmond's all cynical and Lucy's optimistic; they would cover each other's faults and would each keep the other in check. Lucy's unfailing brightness would never go so far as to get her off guard thanks to Desmond's grounding influence, and Desmond wouldn't give up hope thanks to Lucy.

I was wondering if anyone would like seeing a fic about Desmond's escape from the "Ab Lab," the escape Desmond has hinted at several times throughout this fic (In this chapter and in several chapters prior, I allude that Lucy helped Desmond escape from the Abstergo Lab. In this chapter, I mentioned that Lucy helped Desmond escape, but did not go with him. She went back to Abstergo, for reasons of her own). If I write it, it could turn into a multi-chapter fic, or could end up being a ridiculously long one-shot. But the question remains: would people read it? If you review this chapter and have an opinion about this, please let it be known. I'd appreciate your judgment on this matter. Thanks.

Anyway, I figured out that I really like this Japanese candy/cookie thing called Pocky. It's like a really thin biscotti coated in chocolate. Or strawberry. Mmm. Yummy. I'm gonna have to change the subject before I start salivating all over the keyboard.

I hope everybody who's read this has had a fun time. I know I have.

All for now! Stay tuned for the next chapter, which is coming pretty quickly since this one was so short. Woot! Par-tay!


	10. Chapter 10 & The Author's Notion

The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 10

Desmond woke to find a pair of steel gray eyes staring him straight in the face. He had rolled over in the night so his face was pressed against the bunk's security bars, and Vidic was staring at him intently between the cold slats.

Desmond shot up with a yelp. This kind of wake-up call was like something out of a horror movie. A B-rated one, at that, which made Desmond feel a bit put out. He felt he deserved at least an A-minus.

"Couldn't you just invest in an alarm clock?!" Desmond snapped irritably, scratching his head as was his habit. "These little 'cock-a-doodle-doos' of yours are _really_ starting to annoy me."

Vidic shrugged. Today, strangely, he wasn't drinking coffee. "Get down, Mr. Miles."

Demons did as he was told, grumbling all the while. But, after he followed Vidic out of his room and into the rest of the Lab, the muttering ceased and his mouth dropped open.

The windows were still dark. Day hadn't broken yet.

"What time is it?" Desmond asked Jenifer, who was standing at he computer. Her eyes were puffy; had she been roused from bed as well? No, Desmond realized, her clothes were pristine. That suggested otherwise.

"Approximately 2:14 A.M.," she yawned, putting a hand to her mouth. Her makeup had been perfectly applied, too.

"What?! What the hell did you guys wake me up for—?"

Desmond didn't get to finish. The double doors that led to the outside world whooshed open before he could complete the phrase, and in marched three men.

The one in front was dressed in a violet and gold basketball jersey emblazoned with the number '9'; Desmond's physical eyes, so used to looking at nothing but the white and gray of the lab, were nearly blinded by the vibrant hues. He was extremely tall and built like a serious athlete, possessing a toned body devoid of fat. He wore a black cloth over his eyes, and his hands were cuffed securely behind his back. The men flanking him were typical Abstergo suits, each toting a firearm. One began to unlock the handcuffs while the other roughly jerked the blindfold off.

The basketball player blinked coal-dark eyes in the sudden light and rubbed his olive skinned wrists to get his circulation back. His escorts promptly left the room, the doors closing tight behind them. The newcomer had a generous nose straight off a Roman emperor (though it borderline on large), but it suited his strong jaw and narrow eyes. He was very handsome, but would have looked much more appealing had his hair not been very nearly been shaved off. It was cropped in an extremely short military style.

"Hello, Mr. Bohn," said Vidic. "Welcome to Abstergo."

Bohn looked down his generous nose at the doctor and let his eyes flicker to first Jenifer, then Desmond. "I'd like an explanation, please."

Vidic laughed, and Desmond guessed to the word what he would say next: "All in good time, Mr. Bohn, all in good time."

Desmond felt sorry for the new guy. After all, he knew exactly what it was like to have Vidic o all cryptic on you when what you really needed to hear was an explanation. So he said: "Ever hear of the Templars?"

Vidic wheeled around and shot Desmond the most threatening glare he could muster, but Desmond had seen that look so many times he was more or less immune to it.

Bohn narrowed his eyes. "Yes. Third Crusade, right?"

Unimpressed by Vidic's warning glance, Desmond laughed. " Ooh, sharp, aren't you?" he said. "You know your history. Saves me the trouble of explaining that bit." He jerked his thumb at Vidic and Jenifer. "Basically, the lady and the guy in the coat are modern day Knights bent of reforming the planet into their version of a utopia, if you can believe it."

Bohn stood there, one eyebrow arched. "Oh, really?"

"Yup," said Desmond. The sarcasm was not lost on him, but he chose to ignore it. "And see this thing I'm sitting on?" He rapped his knuckles on the Animus' surface. "This is the Animus. It can access genetic memory which these guys here at Abstergo use to look into the past and see where crap they gotta find is. Me, my ancestor is an assassin who battled the Templars. He hid their greatest treasure somewhere and they're using my memories to track it down."

"Oh. Right. Sure."

Desmond would have said more, but Vidic roared: "You loud-mouthed _imbecile_!"

"What?" Desmond asked defensively, shrugging. "It's not like he wouldn't have found out anyway!"

"Yes, but he would have _believed_ it had it not come from someone as _ineloquent _as you!"

"Well, at least he won't get shoved into the Animus without a clue like I was! Seriously, Vidic! Do you know just how disorienting it is go in there and be someone else without being told you're gonna leave your own damn _mind _behind first?"

Vidic, who had been forming a reply, shut his mouth. His lips pursed, and with one hand he rubbed his temples. "I _suppose_ you're right," he said finally, though with great distaste. "It is a sound reasoning, after all."

Desmond preened. "Thanks."

Bohn raised an eyebrow. "Who the hell are you people?"

Desmond made to answer, but Vidic held up a hand, effectively silencing him. "As Mr. Miles explained, we are Templars."

"I thought Abstergo was a pharmaceutical company."

"On the surface it is, yes, but we deal in many things beside medicine…"

Desmond stopped listening. Vidic was giving Bohn a short, sweet version of all the hard-earned information Desmond had come to learn during his last stay at Abstergo. _Probably because he knows I'll tell Bohn everything as soon as I get the chance,_ Desmond thought darkly. _No sense in keeping secrets…_

"Mr. Miles!" Vidic snapped, jolting Desmond from his reverie. "Pay attention!" Behind him, Jenifer was helping Bohn position his long body on the machine's curved tabletop.

Desmond scowled, but still moved to the machine. "Couldn't this wait 'til morning?" he asked grumpily, swinging his legs up onto the Animus. He made to lie down, but Vidic put a hand on his shoulder.

"Wait," he said, shaking his head. His thin lips, usually so cruel when pressed into the thin, bloodless line (as they now were), were more concerned than predatory. "I need to speak with you a moment."

Desmond frowned, but swung his legs off the Animus. He remained seated. "What about?" He glanced to his left: Bohn, at the machine next to him, was staring warily up at the ceiling as the fiber optic screen closed over his face. At his side, Jenifer produced a headset out of nowhere, fitted it over her ear, and began to speak quietly into the microphone.

"About Subject 18," Vidic said, waving a hand at the prone Bohn. "Mr. James Arnold Bohn. We located him yesterday and apprehended him earlier this evening. His ancestor's memories are to undergo examination, starting today. I want you to help him."

Desmond was taken aback. "Me? How would I do that?"

"Have you even looked at the Animus?" Vidic snapped impatiently. "We constructed two more consoles, based on Luc—_Ms. Stillman's_ old design—" Desmond could see the effort Vidic had to undergo to pronounce Lucy's name "—and wired the three together so the subjects inside could interact, so long as they have the same core memory to work with."

"Why?" Desmond asked. "What good will that do? You'll see the same thing."

"But from three different perspectives," Vidic argued. "Three unique viewpoints that may perceive something other than what just one would. We can get a fuller understanding of any situation this way."

Desmond got the feeling Vidic had been over this with someone before. "You've really thought this through, haven't you?"

Vidic sighed and passed a wrinkled hand over his thinning hair. "I had to pose this same argument with the board of directors to get the funding for the project." His eyes flashed. "But that's not the point. Remember the first time you ever ventured into the Animus and attempted to synchronize yourself with your ancestor?"

"Yeah."

"Frankly, Mr. Miles, it was disastrous, and we do not want to risk that happening again. You are to go into the Animus and see if you can synchronize your memory with not only Altaïr, but James's memories as well. It will be a double synchronization. If one of you loses synch, the other will suffer similarly, though there will be a brief time of interim for you to become fully synchronized and pull them back into the memory."

"I don't understand," said Desmond.

Vidic growled. "Have you ever played 'Halo?'"

Desmond blinked. "You mean that old shooter game that was so popular in the early 2000's? I have. Why?"

Vidic began to pace. "When playing in co-op mode and your partner dies, what do you do?"

"Go back to a check point and wait for them to reload," was Desmond's automatic reply.

"Precisely," said Vidic. "If one of you loses synch and falls out of the memory, then the other player must find a safe spot and become anonymous to bring them back. If you are exploring separate memories, then the Animus interface will work the same as always."

"So what's the point of going in right now?"

"You're to guide Mr. Bohn through the tutorial level of the Animus, and make sure he doesn't suffer a breakdown like you did. And, on the plus side, this will help you get used to the double synchronization."

Desmond nodded. "Makes sense."

To the two men's left, Jenifer piped up. "This isn't good," she said worriedly, staring down at the still and silent James. Through the screen, Desmond could see beads of sweat on James's brow and deep furrows between his eyes. The kid couldn't have been older than 18! _Poor guy,_ Desmond thought. _I wonder what he's going through in there? It was hell for me, the first time. _Luckily, he didn't have to wonder for long, for Jenifer said: "He's reacting badly to the synching process. Disorientation, hallucination, recklessness, etc…"

"We'll try the double synch," Vidic said, walking over to James. "Mr. Miles may be able to calm Mr. Bohn down."

"Do you think that's wise?" Jenifer asked. "Achieving a double synch without first letting him get used to the single synch?"

Vidic snarled: "We don't have time to coddle him! Try to keep Bohn as stable as possible until Desmond goes under, then load them both in the same location. Try the Phantom Garden, where the tutorial takes place."

Jenifer nodded grimly, but Desmond could see the apprehensive look in her eyes. "Understood." She turned back to the computer terminal and began to tap at the keys, murmuring occasionally into the microphone lying along her cheek.

Desmond looked at Vidic, who nodded at him. "Go on, Mr. Miles. Time is wasting. You wouldn't want you new friend to suffer a 'bleed,' would you?"

Desmond frowned at the word 'bleed;' it sparked a vague sense of recognition in the back of his mind, but he pushed the reaction away. Instead of asking about it, he laid back on the Animus, then let the world fade into brilliant white as the fiber optics took him captive once again…

* * *

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTION THAT THE MOTION OF THE OCEAN…

…is pulling them out to sea.

I dunno. Just thought it sounded cool (I'm referring to the title, w/e).

So, anyway, we met a new Animus subject: # 18. Ho, hum, tons o' fun. I know you haven't seen much of James, but I hope you get to like him a little. We learn about his back story soon enough, but I just want to say right now that he wont take over the fic. It's still all about Desmond, and it always will be.

Anyway, I started another fic! Woot! It's an Assassin's Creed fic called "The Assassin in the Wastebasket," and it is an idea-crossover between "The Indian and the Cupboard" movie and AC. Guess what it's about. Go check it out if you'd like something a little different from this fic (it only has two chapters at this point, but…). Thanks!

I have a challenge for all of you playing the game right now. Go load memory block 4, and assassinate the Fat Guy who Poisons People. He's hard to miss. When you're doing the investigation missions, find the Informant who asks you to murder two of the Fat Guy's guards. When you first speak to him, he mentions a woman named Addah. I find it interesting that they mention a woman in conjunction with Altaïr. They seemed to know each other or something. Anyway, check it out.

I found another item of snack food to gorge myself on, along with Pocky. It's "Sunchips." I'd never had them before, but they're healthy and YUMMIER than potato chips. There's this "Garden Salsa" kind I'm now obsessed with. Ah, food, how do I liken thee to a summer's day…? Or at least a summer picnic…?

Oh, and in the Assassin's Creed art book, there are female Assassin character designs. Interesting when coupled with the Addah thing I mentioned earlier, huh…?


	11. Chapter 11 & Author's Update

The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 11

White light, blinding in its simplicity, swirled about him. Desmond could barely make out Altaïr's body as it encased him, blinded as he was by the luminescence. He could only hear the sounds of the Animus as the machine beeped and trilled in the strange blue and white space, and dimly Desmond noticed (more through feel and intuition than sight) that he was in the adult Altaïr's body, missing finger and all.

Suddenly a voice fluttered into his Desmond's ear, whispering above the Animus's sounds like a feminine wind.

"I'm taking you to James, Desmond," Jenifer called amid the machine's bleats. "Find him; calm him. He can't go on as he is; he's too stressed, confused."

"Gotcha," Desmond murmured, unsure if Jenifer could hear him. It seemed she could, however, for as soon as his words died the lights began to blink and undulate around him, like water in the air. They converged on his body, enfolding him into the brightness like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Soon, even the faint outline of Desmond's hands faded completely into white light.

When the lights cleared, Desmond was standing in the Garden.

It was as formless as the first time Desmond had been there, on his first voyage into the Animus and his ancestor's memory. People with no faces (mostly women and men carrying crates) wandered about without mind or purpose, but as soon as Desmond materialized in the center of the space the faceless girls swarmed him, crowding so close he was, for an instant, claustrophobic. They buzzed like bees, but spoke no words. Gently, so as not to hurt them and lose what little synchronization he had (for Desmond could feel, rather than see, his level of synchronization: he was only a quarter synched), Desmond pushed the girls out of the way with his forearm, then took a good look about him.

The buildings in the Garden towered haphazardly into the sky. They were a disjointed mix of rich, poor, and middle district houses that grew out of one another like mutant flowers of different shades, birthed from the same malformed stalk. Gates, topped with wicked looking pike, barred him entry into any place outside the courtyard. Random scaffolding and merchant stalls dotted the sides of the buildings and made passage through the throngs of faceless people difficult.

Desmond blinked, digital eyes watering. As if the architecture of this place—a mix of everything Altaïr had ever seen in his life cobbled together as if by some mad godchild—was confusing enough, images of people and places flashed in the empty air; pictures of the events Altaïr had seen during his stay on earth.

Or...were they?

Desmond squinted at the flashing imagery, they opened those same eyes wide in surprise. Some of the images did not jive with Desmond as Altaïr's memories, as some actually featured Altaïr_ in _them!

In a flare of understanding, Desmond realized that this place—the Phantom Garden, Vidic had called it—must be a reflection of the mind of whoever happened to be there. It had reflected Altaïr when he was alone in it, and now that there were two people, both he and James were having an effect on the place. "Those other images… are James's!" Desmond said in a low voice. It came out not in Desmond's sarcastic tones, but Altaïr's calm and unaffected accent. "James!" Desmond called aloud, spinning in a circle. His eyes darted over the men carrying boxes and the faceless, hairless girls in a vain attempt to find subject 18. The girls swarmed him as he made the noise, still bussing. With an impatience born of an emotion similar to desperation, Desmond shoved them out of the way and began to jog around the perimeter of the Phantom Garden, all the while calling out for his fellow subject.

He stopped himself with difficulty. Desmond's synch meter was dropping, and dropping fast. Though he was in control of himself, the random flashes of memory and disjointed pictures emanating from the unseen James made it seem as though James was not. He needed to get James calm, and quickly. But, first, he had to find him. Desmond had an idea of how to accomplish this, but did not know if it would work. He'd never tried it… at least, never in the Garden. Still, since he had no other options, Desmond took a deep breath and activated his Eagle Vision.

The results were disorienting, to say the least. All of the faceless people would glow in a burst of color, but then that color would fade and be chased by another burst of light. They changed at random, from gold to red to blue to white, in a never-ending, arbitrary, capricious rainbow. Still, amid the flickers and flashes, one beam of color shot high into the pale blue and white sky, unwavering and steady.

Shimmering blue for ally, and for friend.

Desmond set off towards the light at a walk, then picked up the pace and jogged when he felt the synch meter slip even further towards total desynchronization. He had to dodge the jar carriers and the murmuring women with no faces, and found the going hard thanks to the increasing image flashes.

"Hang on, James," Desmond hissed in Altaïr's voice as he shoved a girl aside. "I'm coming!"

Desmond could only hope he would make it in time.

* * *

He nearly passed right by him. It was only through unprecedented luck that Desmond spotted James crouched beneath a scaffold, holding his head in his hands and moaning.

"James," Desmond whispered as his synch meter plummeted. He dropped to his knees and crawled under the low wooden structure. "James, I'm here!" He reached out a hand and touched the younger man on the shoulder, but subject 18 flinched and batted Desmond away. James let out a low moan, and Desmond grit his teeth together in frustration.

"Who is he?" James asked. "Who is he who is he who is he who…" The litany continued hurriedly, and Desmond reached out again. He took James's wrist in his hand, and when he tried to tug away Desmond held on tight. Though James protested, Desmond pulled him out from under the scaffolding and into the courtyard proper.

He made James stand, too, and kept his hands firm on subject 18's shoulders. "James," Desmond said in the firmest voice possible. "James, it's me, it's Desmond, I met you right before you came here. Do you remember me?"

James finally looked up; he had been staring at the floor the all the while, muttering under his breath. It was the first time Desmond had gotten a good look at his fellow captive, and his breath caught in his throat.

Malik.

James was Malik, missing arm and all.

It was odd to see Malik's face so strained; pinched. He was not crying, but the look of utter desperation in his eyes was more heart-wrenching than anything Desmond could image tears capable of expressing. Desmond had never seen the man this way, except for once, and that was when Kadar had died. The sense of confused loss pervading the man's features now was so complete it made his eyes all but blank, save for their maddened fervor. Their black depths seemed bottomless as they glistened in the Garden's half-light.

"Jesus," Desmond whispered as James dropped his head again. "He's got it worse than I ever did." Desmond released one of James's shoulders, grit his teeth, and, with his now free hand, struck his new friend across the face. He was rewarded by silence and a look from James: he had stopped muttering and was staring at Desmond, blank eyes border lining on shocked.

_Shock factor,_ Desmond thought smugly. _Works every time._ "Listen to me, James," Desmond growled, leaving his triumph behind him. They weren't out of the woods just yet. "I know it feels like you're two people, but you're not. You are James, and only James. Say it with me: I am James."

"I am…" James trailed off, so Desmond hit him again, harder.

"Say it!" he barked. "I am James!"

"I… am… James," James whispered. And then, more strongly: "I am James." He stood up straighter, and Desmond nearly whooped aloud when he felt the synch meter raise a peg. "I am James."

"Good," Desmond said. "Good. Now say it again."

"I am James." Suddenly James blinked, shook his head, and put his fingers to his temple. Desmond let go of him. "I am… Ooh, wow, but my head aches."

"It would," Desmond remarked dryly, feeling the synch meter rise even higher. "You were two people for a minute there."

"Two…" James looked up at Desmond, then looked around and swore. "Where the fu—"

"Yeah, that's what I said the first time."

"Where are we?" James looked a bit sheepish, and the expression did not sit well on Malik's proud features. "And who are you again?"

Desmond's eyebrow twitched. "Desmond." When James looked at him vacantly, Desmond added: "The guy sitting on the Animus when you first walked in. The one with the big mouth. Remember?"

James nodded. "Oh. Right. You look a bit different."

Desmond shrugged. "So do you, buddy."

James looked down at his robes (they were black, trimmed in red and white; those of a Bureau leader), then noticed his missing limb. "My arm's gone," he said, voice shaking anew. "Oh, God, my arm's gone, where is it, why is it not—"

Desmond could see another breakdown coming, so with speed more befitting a striking cobra he grabbed James's face in both hands and forced him to look at him. "That is not your body," Desmond said firmly, feeling thoroughly like a fruitcake for holding subject 18 this way. "You are in the Animus… or, rather, your mind is. You are reliving the memories of you ancestor Malik." Quickly, so as to hold James's slippery attention, he told him everything about the genetic memory, the past, the Animus; everything. "You're safe here," Desmond concluded, and let go of James when he felt the synch meter being to rise again. "I know it feels weird, know that it feels like you're two different people at the same time, but the fact of the matter is _you can't give in_. You gotta remember who you are at all times, or you'll lose yourself to the memories, like you did earlier." As James grew calmer and calmer, Desmond could feel the synch meter going up and up. It eventually settled at full. "You feel calm now, right?"

"Yeah," James said. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," said Desmond. "Just as long as you're all right."

This Garden place was definitely odd. Desmond could feel the presence of Altaïr pushing at the corners of his mind—as if any moment it would flow over Desmond and drown him in another's thoughts—but was held barely at bay by Desmond's active psyche. This was the most 'Desmond' Desmond had ever been while inside the Animus and Altaïr's memories.

"Do you think you understand everything?" Desmond asked James, who nodded. Desmond then asked: "And you won't break down again?"

James's eyes flashed. "What does it matter to you?"

Desmond blinked. So, he and James were more alike than he'd first thought. It seems Desmond wasn't the only one with trust issues. "Frankly, your ass is my ass when we're both in the Animus. If you can't figure out how to survive then I'll probably die… and vice versa." Desmond laughed at the alarmed look James shot him at this. "When two people are put in the same memory strand, they're… well, I guess they're parasitic." Desmond's nose wrinkled. "No, that's not the right word. I need the word that mean _both_ sides benefit from the other—"

James immediately supplied: "Symbiotic."

"Right. That. Anyway, we're symbiotic: you get hurt, I lose synchronization. I get hurt, you lose synchronization. Make sense?"

"What's synchronization?"

Desmond put a hand to his face and moaned. "Dammit, Jenifer, do I have to explain _everything_ to this guy?" He wasn't expecting an answer, so both he and James jumped when a voice actually gave Desmond a response

"Oh, no, I'll take over from here," Jenifer said. "Sorry. I'll pull you into the tutorial level now."

"That the Asian lady?" James said out of the corner of his mouth. "The one that put me on that machine thing?"

"Her name's Jenifer," Desmond answered. "She runs the Animus while we're inside. Makes sure we don't die or anything nasty like that."

James 'oh-ed.' "I guess I owe her a 'thank you,' then."

"Don't bother. It's just her job. She's more like a glorified jailer than anything."

"So I suppose that makes us sci-fi Shawshank inmates, then?"

Desmond's mouth quirked. This James kid was funny, what with his Stephen King references and all. "Something like that."

"Okay, hold on tight, guys!" Jenifer said. "I'm pulling you to the tutorial!"

"Whoa!" James exclaimed as white mist immediately began swirl thick about his feet. "What the hell?"

Desmond laughed. "Disorienting, but harmless. We're being loaded somewhere else."

James's face was all but invisible in the swirling light, though Desmond could still see the expression etched onto Malik's features. It was equal parts wonder, apprehension, and fear. Still, despite the fear, the synch bar stayed steady and full. "I'm tingling, like the way my foot feels when it falls asleep, only it's all over my body. Is that normal?"

Desmond blinked. "I dunno. I don't feel that way. Just sort of clammy and not-all-there, like my mind's drifting off… maybe…"

He lost his train of thought just as James fully disappeared into the light and mist. It bothered Desmond that James would leave without saying goodbye, but soon even that thought faded right alongside with his steadily vanishing body…

* * *

* * *

AUTHOR'S UPDATE

Next chapter has Desi (as I find myself calling him now) and James in the tutorial, learning the finer workings of the double-synch. After that, it's back to Masyaf, where we learn more about their past together. Stay tuned!


	12. Chapter 12

The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 12

It did not take Desmond long to figure out he hated the double synch.

It wasn't so much that he had to worry about his partner dying on him (he could protect James without breaking a sweat) but the consequences that came with letting himself getting desynched (he had been doing it purposefully all day so James could get used to it) made his life hell. In the event Desmond lost synchronization, James would panic and, rather than run for a checkpoint so Desmond could reboot, would scramble to get away with little regard for his own safety. He would fall from great heights, hurt civilians, trip and fall and accidentally give the guard more time to catch up with him. It was frying Desmond's nerves. Why couldn't he just run for a while, listen to the awareness indicator, and jump in a hale bale when the coast was clear?

What was even worse was what Jenifer called the "Subject-to-Subject Interface," or what Desmond referred to as the "telekinetic hoo-hah I would rather deal without, thanks." The SSI was a link between Desmond and James, over which they could discuss things using nothing but their heads. Their ancestor's bodies said nothing aloud, but Desmond and James could communicate with their thoughts as plain as day.

"The link is the cause of all our problems, Jen," Desmond said grumpily as she rebooted him for the fifth time. James, looking thoroughly embarrassed, stood off to the side. They had been in the tutorial level for nearly an hour, testing the double synch again and again… and failing each time. "When I desynch, Mr. Wet-Behind-The-Ears over here freaks out 'cuz my thoughts go bye-bye."

"Would you rather me turn the SSI off, then?" Jenifer asked.

Desmond nodded. "You got it."

"W-wait," James stuttered, walking over to Desmond. "I don't think that's such a good idea…"

Desmond's scowl deepened. "Why the fuck not?"

James looked at the ground ashamedly. "I…"

Desmond's eye twitched. "Spit it out!"

"I'm scared!" James blurted. He sighed; now that the truth was out there was no use sugarcoating it. "Okay, it's out. I'm scared. Shitless, in fact."

Desmond cocked his head to the side. "Just how old are you?"

James blinked. "Uh… nineteen. Why?"

"You out of the house yet?"

"Freshman at a university… but why is this relevant?"

"Oh, no reason. Just seeing if you were still dependent on mommy and daddy. You act like you are."

James bristled, and his only fist clenched spasmodically. "And just what is _that _supposed to mean?"

Desmond pinned him with a hard, unwavering glare. "It means," he said, "that you're clinging to me like a stubborn child."

James gaped at him, but recovered quickly. "So?" James asked, defensive. "Can't you have a little compassion? This place is freaking me out, and you're getting mad just because I feel like I need support? Just because you're better at this than I am doesn't mean—"

At that point, Desmond snapped.

"Do you think this is easy for _me_?!" Desmond roared, taking a menacing step toward Subject 18. James backed off a little as Desmond gnashed his teeth. He'd had about enough of the kid. "I'd rather be thrown into a pit of snakes than stay in here and listen to you whine! And don't give me that 'I'm new at this so coddle me' shit! Just wait until you're hands are bathed in so much blood you can hardly grasp a sword without it squishing in your grip! Wait until you're so deep in a memory you can hardly tell yourself from your ancestor! Wait until you lose yourself so completely that it's a surprise when you wake up on the Animus! Wait until blood glows on the walls and people change colors right before your eyes! Just fucking _wait_, you whiny little_ shit_! Just _wait_!"

Desmond's chest rose and fell frantically. James was standing utterly still, his eyes as large as coins. It took almost a minute for someone to break the syrup-thick silence.

"Um… so, should I shut off the SSI, then?" Jenifer asked tentatively.

Desmond's anger broke. "Oh, shut up," he grumbled, "and leave it on."

"W-wait," James stuttered, frozen stance breaking.

"What now?" Desmond's growl was filled with malice… but it was a tired cruelty, one with little feeling behind it.

James took a deep breath. "We can cut it off," he said slowly, "if you'd like."

Desmond breathed a weary sigh and waved a dismissive hand. "No," he muttered, "not if you need it."

"If you're sure," James said after a moment's hesitation.

"I am."

"Let's try the double synch again," Jenifer said offhandedly. "Loading guard evasion practice." A smattering of buildings, hay bales, guards, and civilians materialized out of the blue mist of the Animus.

Desmond turned to James, who looked quickly at the ground. His cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.

"Just try your best," Desmond said, and walked forward to place a hand on his fellow subject's shoulder. James looked him briefly in the eye, then swallowed and looked down.

"I will," he said, and together they walked towards the holographic city.

* * *

An hour later, they had perfected the double synch. 

It was strange. Desmond's outburst had acted as something of a stress reliever; he was more fluid on his feet and more tolerant of James's mistakes. It was this newfound leniency that allowed him to adapt and become acclimatized to James's personality and mindset. With a cleared head, he was more willing to allow James into his consciousness and show him the ropes of being synched with both the Ancestor and his fellow Subject.

_"Good job,"_ Desmond thought absently, brushing hay from the front of Altaïr's white robes. He had been hiding in a hay bale after purposefully alerting a troop of patrolling Saracens. James had spirited himself away to another hiding spot, and Desmond could feel his presence through the SSI link.

_"Thanks,"_ James answered cheerfully.

_"Which hiding spot did you use?"_

_"Bench."_

_"Wow. Those are the hardest. The civilians see you running and they get up and leave."_

There came a chuckle. _"I passed three before they'd let me sit down."_

Desmond laughed. _"Typical. Anyway, Come and find me and we'll try to—"_

He didn't finish, as he stopped when he saw the scenery around him shifting. Colors began to bleed into one another, then fade into blue and white. Soon the city and its denizens were gone.

James was standing about a dozen yards away. Desmond trotted over to him.

"What's going on?" James asked. "Where did everybody go?"

"I dunno," Desmond muttered. "Maybe they're pulling us out."

A voice sprang out of the blue void. "Nope." The cheerful tones belonged to Jenifer. "Vidic got onto me. Said the tutorial had drawn on long enough. You guys ready for your first dual memory?"

Desmond glanced at James. Subject 18's face was drawn, but a steely determination belonging to James glittered in Malik's eyes. Still, the features were pale, so Desmond asked: "Will you be okay?"

James tried to smile. Failed. "I think so. I hope so."

That was good enough for Desmond. "'Atta boy," he laughed, giving James a playful punch on the shoulder. Then, to Jenifer: "Is this a childhood memory or an adult memory?"

"Childhood," said the Animus's operator. "It took place just before the Apprentice's ascension to Cadet-hood."

James shot Desmond a confused look. Jenifer, apparently, saw it, so she clarified: "The Assassins had a ranking system based on skill level," she said patiently. "There are nine ranks, beginning with the rank of Novice and ending with Grandmaster Assassin. Apprenticeship was one step up from being a Novice, and a Cadet was one tier higher than an Apprentice. I'll give you a more thorough explanation later, but this will have to do for now." She paused. "I'm going to load you into your younger bodies, now."

Desmond and James immediately began to mutate. They grew shorter, leaner, and their outfits changed from tailored whites and blacks to ill-fitting and stained tans.

"Whoa!" James gasped. Desmond found it interesting to see an arm growing like a plant from Malik's empty socket. "What's happening?"

"We're going back to a memory from Altaïr and Malik's childhood," said Desmond. "We have to be in their kid bodies for that." He cocked an eyebrow at the sky. "Can't James have a go at the kid's tutorial? Having a smaller body takes some getting used to."

Jenifer said: "Nuh-uh. Vidic's insisting we get a move on. This memory has two goals: one is that you get used to the double synch for real, and the second that it will further us along on the memory time line. He's adamant about starting it today; the sun is rising outside the Animus. You've been at this all night, and need rest… and though I think you should get out now, Vidic won't let me pull you guys. We've gotta do this, and fast."

James and Desmond looked at one another. Jenifer had given them a lot of information to process.

"When you're ready," she said.

"Ready," both subjects chorused in unison, and lost themselves to memory.

Altaïr and Malik sat crossed legged in the sparring arena. About twenty or so other Apprentices sat nearby; the two were simply dirty faces in a crowed of grimy children. Utterly nondescript, they were set apart from the others only by their distance from the rest of their peers; it was as if their fellows were scared to approach them, and had left them to their own devices at the back of the ring.

"Are you nervous?" Malik whispered quietly to Altaïr. Altaïr shook his head.

"No," he said in a low voice, tracing his fingers idly over the dusty ground. "Are you?"

Malik hesitated. "A little," he admitted, "though not so much as to be distracted by my fears."

Altaïr nodded. "Good."

Malik opened his mouth, then closed it. A black-robed Teacher with a white beard and a heavily line face had walked to the front of the arena, and as Malik and Altaïr watched he raised his hand for quiet. The murmured questions of the Apprentices faded into the hot summer air.

"As you know," the Teacher said, "today is the day we, the Assassins of Masyaf, give the Apprentices a chance to prove their mettle and show to us that they are ready to receive the promotion to Cadet-hood." He stared at the crowd of young men, who were really little more than children whose eyes shown with the fervency of excitement. "You must complete a predefined task to the satisfaction of your superiors." His old eyes grew hard. "Know that if you fail, you will have to wait for another year for this day to come. We give you only one opportunity a year to climb a rank; do not lose this chance. Some of you—" the old man's eyes flickered towards a group of boys who were all noticeably taller than the others "—know well of the shame of which I speak."

Altaïr looked at the boys the Teacher had glanced at. Bashan, Hashat, and Madar had each been Apprentices for over two years, and were notorious for their bullying of the younger Apprentices. Bashan was the leader of the trio, and his build showed why. He was huge, covered in a layer of hard muscle and thick skin. Hashat was the quickest of the three; he was tall, thin, and whip-like. His eyes glittered with malevolent intelligence. The last of them, Madar, was as dumb as he was ugly: he had a squash-shaped nose and beady little eyes overhung by a pebbly brow. His arms were thick as fence posts, and he had the long-limbed, short-torso-ed body of an ape. He was the strongest of the three, and followed Bashan blindly.

As if sensing Altaïr's scrutiny, Bashan's head swiveled on his massive neck. Their gazes locked; Bashan sneered and elbowed Hashat, who grinned maniacally at Altaïr.

"Altaïr," Mailk whispered. "Stop that!"

"Stop what?" Altaïr asked in surprise. "I was only looking—"

"At the biggest bully ever!" Malik hissed. "He'll snap you in half if you anger him! Try not to give him more of a reason to do just that!"

Altaïr sighed. He wondered why Malik was not used to this. Malik had been the youngest of the Apprentices before Altair had joined, and had been picked on by Bashan since his first day at the fortress. Altaïr was the newest target, and his rapid progress in his eight months since his promotion to Apprenticeship, coupled with his age, had attracted the twice-held-back Bashan's attention. He'd been without several meals since he joined Bashan's rank level.

Altaïr cleared his head of such thoughts. No use thinking about them now. He looked back up at the teacher.

"Your task is simple," the Teacher said. "You are to pick the pocket of one of the ten Instructors roaming the village of Masyaf. In their pockets are scrolls, like this one." From the sleeve of his tunic, the Teacher pulled a strip of parchment wound around a smooth piece of wood. It had been closed with a red string tied in an intricate knot. "You are to bring back one by sunset, and report to me in the Library."

The Apprentices began to murmur amongst themselves. Altaïr looked at Malik, and a wordless communication ensued. Their facial expression and body language said volumes about their thoughts.

Altaïr smiled triumphantly. _"This will be simple!" _

Malik nodded in agreement, which meant: _"I agree."_ However, Malik was ever pessimistic, and his face darkened. _"There must be a catch."_

Altaïr rolled his eyes, which obviously translated as: _"That's just like you, you cynical little…"_

"However…" said the Teacher.

Malik's frown turned upside down. _"See?"_

Altaïr scowled. _"Braggart."_

"…under no circumstances are you to open the scroll and see what is contained within."

His words were met with silence, until one lone voice whispered:

"Why not?"

_Yes, why not?_ Altaïr thought. Malik looked similarly troubled. The Apprentices began to mumble like angry bees.

The Teacher held up a hand. "If any of you reaches the rank of the Assassin, you will be entrusted with secret information." The boys were quiet again, breath held as they heard a story about their idols. "If we can not trust you with a mere scroll, then how could our Master, the great Al Maulim, ever think to trust you with the removal of one's life?" He spread out his arms and tiled his face at the noonday sky. Bright sunlight made his beard shine like white fire and his black eyes glow. "This is not only a test of your skill, but of your trustworthiness. Your honesty and candor are being measured this day; do nothing to jeopardize our opinions of your person!" He lowered hi arms and smiled.

The boys were deadly quiet, and all their faces glowed. They had been deeply moved by the Teacher's words, and were wound taut as bowstrings.

The Teacher's eyes glittered as he took in the sight of his pupils' growing zeal. "Now," he said, when he thought he'd kept them waiting long enough, "go!"

A mad scramble ensued as the boys ran headlong out of the fortress's gates and headed for the village, whooping and hollering with purpose and joy.

Altaïr meant to run after, but Malik caught his arm. "Wait," he said. "Running impetuously into battle will get us nowhere. The ones with the scrolls will be on the look out for boys seeking to pick their pockets. We must approach with discretion and calmness of mind, Altaïr!"

That made sense, and Altaïr nodded. "Forgive my actions. I was not myself."

Malik frowned and shot a glance at the Teacher who had told them of the test. The old man was walking slowly back into the cool Library, a smile on his lips. "I think our Teacher's speech intended you to feel that way. His language, his face… everything was charged to stir us up, make it easier for us to err and fail."

Altaïr blinked. "But why would he do that?"

Malik's head shook from side to side. "I have no idea. But don't let it trouble you. For now, let's just plan out a strategy to get those scrolls. Now, since you're better at this than I am, map something out and I'll provide criticism." Malik had always been better at refining plans, while Altaïr better at coming up with them to begin with. Altaïr's plans, however, were rough by nature, and Malik's keen eye for detail made their plans perfect when they worked together to achieve a common goal.

The two boys sat crouched in the dirt of the arena floor. With a stick, Altaïr sketched out a crude drawing of the village. "We should start with reconnaissance. First, landmarks. Here is the well," he said, pointing with the stick, "and the Gates. Now, if you circle around here—" he drew a curving line in the dirt "—I'll go this way. We will rendezvous here—" he made a slight depression in the dry earth "—and report what we have seen. Then we'll—"

A shadow fell over the boys and the map. The two of them looked up sharply, straight into the face of the Teacher who had riled all of the Apprentices up.

"Why have you not gone down to the village?" he asked. His eyes were concerned. "Have you given up already?"

Altaïr's pride stung. "No, sir," he said. "We are forming a plan before we run head-first into the fray."

The Teacher was silent for a moment. "Are you, now," he said. It was not a question.

"Yes," Malik said.

The Teacher looked down at the dirt map. "And what is this plan of yours?"

Altaïr hesitated, but Malik nodded encouragingly. Altaïr cautiously outlined his ideas.

"A solid plan," said the Teacher. "Yes, very solid indeed… needs polish, certainly, but…" He eyed both Altaïr and Malik approvingly. "I'm sure your friend can help with that. What are your names, children?"

They told him. He nodded.

"The nephew of the Damascan trader," he said to Malik, who gasped in surprise. The Teacher knew of him? "Your Instructors call you gifted in the art of logic and strategy, though they say you lack imagination."

Malik stammered an affirmative, but the Teacher had turned to Altaïr.

"And you," he said, "are that orphan of Al Maulim's. The youngest Apprentice."

He said no more. Slowly, Altaïr nodded.

"Interesting," the Teacher murmured. "Yes, very interesting." His eyes had gone cloudy and far-away; now, the snapped back to the boys. "Good luck on your journey, my children," he said, and left them sitting in the dirt.

Malik frowned at his retreating back. "What a strange old man," he whispered, "to be so interested in us, two lowly Apprentices!"

Altaïr said nothing. The Teacher had known of him, and of this he was wary. He had come to know, mostly through the actions of Bashan and the teachings of his Instructors, that being noticed was not a thing to be longed for. What did that Teacher want from him, and from Malik?

"Let's go over the plan one more time," Altaïr said, turning back to the task at hand. He smiled to himself as he reiterated the plan to Malik.

The task at hand was one he would surely win.

Of that Altaïr was certain.

* * *

* * *

AUTHOR'S BORING NOTE OF BOREDOM

Blah. I'm too tired to write a note. This chapter took me three hours. I'm tired. My fingers ache. I have dance lessons tomorrow at 5 A.M. Fuck. Love me for writing you all this at [checks watch 10 P.M. I mean, given the length of this chapter (3,000 words) it's obvious that I love _you_.

See ya next time! Will they get the scrolls? Tune in to find out!


	13. Chapter 13 & Author's Pleading Letter

NOTE: I _know_ Sena isn't an Arabic name. It's Japanese. My character Sena (who might reappear in a small role in a future chapter) is my little way of paying homage to Sena Kobayakawa from the Eyeshield 21 manga.

Oh, and Sena tells several stories over the course of the chapter, and the best way to read them is in an over-dramatic fashion, in the style of Grimm's Fairytales. Totally overblown, you know? Sena's a drama king with a taste for attention, so best keep that in mind when you get to his monologue…

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The Beginning Of Silence

Chapter 13

Malik and Altaïr sat crouched behind a cart of hay, trying their best to look inconspicuous. Twenty yards in front of them, the mouth of an alleyway yawned like the jaws of a shadowy black beast.

"You saw him go in there?" Altaïr asked, barely moving his lips. Again, his body spoke louder than his words. His eyes were fixed on the alley, but were filled with skepticism.

Malik looked up at the sky and muttered back: "Yes. He was not being followed. I made sure of it." A nod of his head and a reassuring glance down the lane in front of the alleyway accompanied the words.

The two boys had, after setting off from the fortress, split up and circled the village, keeping a lookout for the Instructors entrusted with the task scrolls. They had agreed to meet at an appointed place at a certain time, but Malik never showed up. So, Altaïr retraced Malik's steps and found him watching the mouth of an alleyway, which he claimed to have seen a frazzled-looking instructor duck into.

"When I first spotted him," Malik said, "he was being tailed by at least four other students, who were less than subtle about in their attempts to take the scroll. I managed to stay out of sight (which was easier than I anticipated; he was distracted by the others), and when he at last tried to flee his pursuers I followed him here." He smiled slightly. "The Instructors are stressed, it seems."

Altaïr nodded in agreement. During his rounds, he had seen more than one Instructor being rather obviously followed by Apprentices, and on one occasion he had witnessed three children practically mobbing their superior in an attempt to gain possession of a scroll.

"So, Altaïr," Malik asked, "what is the plan?"

Altaïr glanced skyward. "It will do us no go to charge into the alley for the scroll," he said, "for there is only one entrance, and he will see us long before we come close to him. If we were to try to overpower him with force… well, that would be foolhardy. He's twice our size, and trained. Would it were one of our peers, fighting would be our best option, but…" He smirked. "Our best option—not to mention out only one—is to wait for him to leave his hiding place, and act from there. He won't be expected a strike as soon as he leaves, but we'll be ready for him."

"A solid enough plan, for now," Malik said once Altaïr had finished. "He does not know I tailed him, so he will not ready himself properly when he at last leaves."

"Surprise is our ally, here," Altair agreed. "Best put it to good use." He dropped to the ground and leaned lightly against the wall behind the hay cart. He could see the alley, and the road that ran in front of it, but it would be hard for passerby to see Altaïr. As an added bonus, the lane was a fairly quiet one, populated only by women and the working class. No other Apprentices were in sight. "Now, we wait. There is nothing else we can do."

Malik dropped to the ground, too, and opened his mouth to speak. He stopped, however, his attention focused on something in the road.

Altaïr looked, too, and saw one of their fellow Apprentices scuttling down the nearly-deserted lane. His round, pretty face (he had long eyelashes and wide eyes like a girl's) was covered by a mask of determination that barely concealed a more hectic look.

"Is that Sena?" Malik asked. Sena was one of the scrawniest boys in both Altaïr and Malik's age group, though he was likely the quickest on his feet. He had been picked on since he was a small child, and was an uncommonly fast runner, a skill likely honed over years of running from bullies.

"I think so," Altaïr said quietly. His eyes widened. "Has he got a--?"

Malik rose to his feet quietly. "Hold on," he said, crouching low in the dust. He picked up a stone off the ground, took careful aim, and lobbed it onto the street.

Its aim was true; it landed right in front of Sena. Sena ground to a halt, looked once at the rock, then once over at the hay cart. His eyes narrowed in confusion.

Malik stuck a hand out over the hay and wiggled his fingers. Sena gasped, looked around warily, and stalked over. His posture indicated that he was ready to bolt at any moment. He rounded the corner of the cart with the wariness of an abused cat, then relaxed when he saw Malik and Altaïr. They had never picked on him. "Hello," he said, voice still a touch nervous.

"How have you fared, Sena?" Malik asked. His voice was all pleasantness and smooth edges.

Sena stared at him a moment, biting on his lower lip. "Oh, well enough." He kicked idly at the ground. "And you?"

Malik waved a hand, intentionally vague. "Oh, fine," he said. His voice dropped a little. "But, really, how have you been? You look happier than you have been in ages. What's happened?"

Altaïr studied the smaller boy, and remained seated. "What have you got down your shirt?"

Sena gasped aloud and placed his hand over the bulge on his left hip. "I-I know not what you mean," he stammered, still clutching what was undoubtedly a scroll.

Altaïr's eyes narrowed, and Malik chuckled: "Your grasping hand betrays you."

Sena's cheeks colored and let go of his prize. It made an obvious rounded bump on his side, like a roll of fat without a partner on the other side of its host's body. "Alright; you caught me. I have a scroll."

"How'd you get it?" was Malik's eager reaction. "Tell us!"

Sena stayed silent, and licked his lips nervously. "You mean you're…"

"Hm?"

"You mean you're not going to take the scroll from me?"

Malik and Altaïr shot each other surprised glances. "Of course not!" exclaimed Malik. "You earned it! We would only ask you for guidance as to how to obtain one for ourselves."

Sena smiled nervously; Malik's words rang true, and the small boy was reassured. "Oh. Well, then." His bright eyes grew mischievous as his trepidation faded and he crouched in the dust with Malik and Altaïr. "You'll never believe my luck," he said. "I walked to the Gates as soon as I left the fortress, and—long story short—heard a man shouting and limbs scuffling mere meters away. It sounded like a fight, and I was curious. I looked, of course, and when I peaked around the corner of a building at the ones making the noises, I found an Instructor and three Apprentices in a brawl." He grinned. "It was Bashan and his lackeys. They thought the could beat a teacher into giving up a scroll—and let me say now that they were being trounced." Bashan, Hashat, and Madar were Sena's worst bullies. "Ah, it was grand to see."

"Go on," Altaïr urged, impatient. "What happened next?"

"Well," Sena said, smiling, "I watched—with all the glee in me, you understand—as the mighty Instructor made their hides bleed. Bashan was the closest of the three to get to the scroll; he'd touched the bag it was in as it hung off the Instructor's belt, and jostled it so I could see the shape of the scroll quite clearly through the thin leather. I hate to admit it, but it was Bashan's actions that made it so easy for me to take the scroll from our Brother. Funny, fate's workings. Sometimes it is as if God grants us favors in the most unsuspected—"

Altaïr realized that Sena was milking the story for all it was worth, stalling as best he could to keep both Malik and Altaïr interested. He never did get attention (unless it was from bullies) and must have been reveling in Altaïr and Malik's.

"Sena," Altaïr said patiently, being as gentle as he could, "please tell us what happened."

Sena blushed again. "Oh, all right," he grumbled. "The Instructor left Bashan and the others writhing in the dust. I followed him. He was limping slightly, as the wily Hashat had kicked him smartly in the shin (an underhanded blow, if I may say so myself), and moved slowly. So, summoning all my courage, I made a dash at him. Remember: I could see the scroll quite clearly. Using every ounce of speed I possessed, I ran past him, plunged my hand into the satchel at his side, and ripped the scroll free." Sena smiled wryly. "I never broke stride, and ran as if the devil himself were chasing me."

Malik let out a low whistle. "You never broke… did the Instructor pursue you?"

Sena grew thoughtful. "That is the strange part," he said. "I looked back when I heard no running footsteps, and he was just… _standing _there." His eyes glazed over as Sena looked into past. "And what's even more strange—he was smiling! He looked triumphantly at me, and nodded in my direction, as if proud I'd bested him." Sena's eyes returned to the present. "I've been keeping to back alleys and little-used roads since gaining my scroll, and from the shadows I have seen many strange things. Every time an apprentice takes a scroll from an Instructor, the Instructor does not try to take it back. It is as if they think: 'they bested us once, and that is enough to prove their worth.' I think that once you've taken the scroll into your hands, the Instructors just let you have it." He smiled, looking relieved. "Imagine if their orders were to gain back the scrolls from as many students as they could? I would be relieved of my prize in an instant, I'll bet!"

Something in Sena's words sparked Altaïr's imagination; the wheels and cogs of his meticulous, calculating mind began to rumble into life, then grind with sudden ferocity. "I… have an idea…" he said slowly.

"Hm?" Malik grunted. Sena just looked confused.

Eager to express his thoughts, Altaïr began to speak rapidly. "What if we were to—"

He outlined a new plan to Malik, and Sena listened on. When Altaïr concluded his speech, his fiends sat quiet for a moment then burst into twin smiles.

"Perfect!" Malik said.

Sena was more awed than excited. "I knew you were good," he said, "but not _this _good."

Altaïr placed a hand on Sena's shoulder. "It all depends on you, though," he said. "Do you think you can do it?"

Malik, more thoughtful than Altaïr by nature, added: "You do not have to help us if you do not wish to."

Sena hesitated. "All I'll have to do is go in there and ask him that question? And tell him the message?"

Altaïr nodded.

Sena swallowed. "I can manage, I think."

Malik smiled. "From the way you told your story earlier, I can see you have a way with words. You should have little trouble with this."

Sena blushed at the praise. "Thank you," he mumbled.

"No," Altaïr said. "Thank _you_."

"When do you want me to do it?" Sena asked. It was clear his mind was made up; his voice did not waver in the slightest.

Malik glanced at the sky. They had spent less than a half hour behind the cart, but time was still of utmost importance. "Soon, I should think."

Sena stood. "Then I'll go now," he said, and tugged his scroll out from beneath the hem of his tunic.

"You remember your job?" Altaïr asked.

Sena smiled. "I do. And I promise I will do the two of you proud." He hesitated. "Malik… you praised me a minute ago. Thank you."

Malik blinked. "You deserved it; I delivered. No thanks are required."

Sena turned to Altaïr. "Altaïr… you have been kind to me too, in your own way. You could have bullied me, strong as you are, but never have. You could have taken the scroll, but did not, and instead you asked me for advice." Sena snorted. "Me—the weakest Apprentice." His eyes softened. "Your humbleness, your integrity—they are the makings of a true Master."

Altaïr bowed his head at the praise. "You think too highly of me. I am but a youth."

Sena shook his head. "There, you see? _That _is why I admire you so much." He fingered the red string holding the scroll closed. "Thank you for this chance; the chance to prove I am worthy of admiration, too." And with that, Sena strode confidently across the lane and into the depths of the alleyway.

"You have a fan, it seems," said Malik, amused.

Altaïr shrugged. "He entertains delusions, but I like his spirit. He is admirable, too, in his own way. Imagine someone being that positive after years of bullying!"

"It is indeed an inspiring thing," Malik mused. "Though he thinks too little of himself. He must learn to accept his own short comings before he can become a true Assassin."

The two friends lapsed into companionable silence, eyes fixed on the alley. Minutes later, Sena trotted out of the alley with a grin plastered across his features.

"Success!" he whispered once behind the safety of the hay wagon.

"How did your conversation go?" asked Malik.

Sena sat back to tell the tale. "I entered the alleyway as instructed, feigning exhaustion and fear with every step, and got a very good look at the geography." He sketched an 'L' shape on the ground. "This part," he said, tracing the short side of the 'L', "runs along the back of the house on the alley's left side. There's a bench there, and a well in the curve of the alley. The Instructor was sitting on the bench, cooling himself with water from a bucket (undoubtedly from the well). When he saw me, he leapt up as if bitten by a viper, but calmed once he saw the scroll in my hands.

"I looked scared, and made to run (as you instructed me), but he stopped me. 'Stay,' he said, 'and drink from the well. I do not mean to take the scroll from you.'

"'How do I know this to be true?' I replied. 'You might simply say that to catch me off guard, and then take the scroll.'

"All the while, of course, I eyed the well as if dying of thirst.

"The Instructor laughed. 'We do not take from those that have already passed,' he said. 'Drink with me. You're dying.'

"'I cannot,' I replied, though I made sure to edge noticeably closer. 'Have you not heard?'

"Altaïr, the Instructor rose to the bait, just as you predicted! 'Heard what?' he asked.

"'The Master had sent word that all of the remaining Instructors and Apprentices with scrolls report back to the fortress,' I said.

"The Instructor was, of course, indignant. 'Why have I not heard of this?' he demanded, rising from the bench.

"I cast down my eyes and became the very portrait of humbleness. 'Too many Instructors have secreted themselves away,' I said, 'and no more scrolls can be found. The Master has decreed that everyone regroup at the fortress, then start the Test over again.' This was, of course, a lie I made up on the spot, but he believed it readily enough. I leaned in then, seeing his believing face, and whispered like a conspirator: 'But I am afraid for my safety, and my scroll! Apprentices—maddened by the prospect of success—have attacked Instructors on the way back—fellow Apprentices, as well! So many Instructors crowd the path to the fortress that the Apprentices without scrolls find easy pickings on the road. It is madness to return at this time!'

"'I see,' he said gravely. 'I was hiding, and did not get the news. So we must return?'

"I shuddered theatrically. 'Yes. The Test will not start again until all are present.' Then the Instructor made to exit the alley, but I stopped him. 'No! Not yet! Too many apprentices eager for a scroll crowd the lanes and roads! Best wait a minute more, for them to answer summons and be well away from here!'

"He saw the wisdom in my words, and sat back down. 'What will you do, burdened as you are by a scroll?'

"I pointed at the alley mouth. 'There is a cart of hay. I will hide there until I feel safe.'

"He nodded. 'Why not here?'

"I laughed. 'And risk myself alongside a main target such as yourself? No, thank you!' And with that, I ran out of the alley, and into the arms of my compatriots."

Sena concluded his tale with a gracious gesture that encompassed both Malik and Altaïr. Malik clapped a little after that, and said: "Well told!"

"You performed well, and lie like a professional," said Altaïr. Sena was the one who had made up the lie about the summons to the fortress, without any prompting from Malik or Altaïr. The fact he had made it up without forethought—on the spot, as he'd said—was a true feat indeed. So much pressure, and yet nervous little Sena had maintained his façade. He could probably teach _me_ a thing or two, Altaïr realized.

"Now on with phase two," Malik said. He stood, and so did Sena. Altaïr remained seated.

Sena began to climb into the hay bale. When naught but his head remained uncovered, he said: "I wish both of you the best of luck."

"Luck is not a substitute for skill," Altaïr said stiffly, then loosened. "But, thank you."

"And luck to you too, Sena," Malik said cheerfully, pulling hay over Sena's protruding head.

Sena beamed just as the hay fell completely over his eyes. Voice muffled, he said: "Thank you!", and was silent.

Malik turned to Altaïr. "How long do you think the Instructor will be?"

"Not very," Altaïr guessed. He glanced out from behind the cart at the lane: it was empty. "So hurry!" He rolled to his feet and trotted out from behind the hay bale, then pressed himself flat against the wall to the left of the alley. He dared not look inside it, and stood as still as he possibly could, careful to make no sound.

Across the way, Malik's head poked out from over the top of the hay bale. He nodded at Altaïr, and dashed to the other side of the alley mouth. Then he turned and began to walk away from Altaïr, to an abandoned merchant's stall not two yards away. He crouched low beneath the stall's tabletop, which was still covered with a cheap canvas that blocked him from view.

Altaïr could feel Malik's readiness for action in his bones, and knew that the time for action had come.

As if on schedule, the prey—robed in gray and belted with the red of spilt blood—emerged from the alley.

Altaïr's blood began to boil.

His first 'kill' was now in sight.

* * *

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AUTHOR'S LETTER, PLEADING FOR SANITY

Long chapter. 3400 words. Lots of exposition. I found Sena funny. Did you read his tuff all overly-dramatic like I asked? Go back and do it if you didn't. It's fun. Next chapter we get ACTION!!!!!

And lots of it.

So I'm in love with a game called Devil May Cry… heard of it? The fourth installment in the series comes out in less than a week, and I'm DYING of anticipation. So, when my friend Jared told me that there was a FREE demo on "PLAYSTATION©Network" (PLAYSTATION©Network has a very specific name, with capital letters and the © symbol), I downloaded it.

Or tried to.

I found out that there's no wi-fi in my house, so I had to do it manually. But guess what? I have internet connection through only ONE phone jack in my house.

But did I know this?

Not until today, when I tried to hook it up with the RIGHT jack (after three failed attempts with other jacks). See, I AT LAST used the jack my computer NORMALLY plugs into. It worked like a dream.

But what kind of dream, you ask?

Easy.

A nightmare.

The software I needed to sign up took an HOUR and a HALF to download; then it took me ANOTHER thirty minutes to actually do the signing up! I misspelled my ID, and can't change it, but the worst part is this:

My beloved DMC4 demo?

It's been downloading for over 8 hours.

That's right. 8. Eight. Ocho. Huit. And it's still on 50 completion.

W.

T.

F.

I mean, WTF!?! EIGHT?!? I knew my connection was slow, but not THIS slow! Argh! And all for ten minutes of game play and a boss fight!

My sanity is shot. What can make it better? Please let me know, cuz I'm stumped!

Sincerely:

S.J.


	14. Chapter 14 & Author Announcements

The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 14

Sweaty fingers balled into fists as Altaïr's 'Prey'—a gray robed instructor whose face was swathed in cloth—stepped from the darkness of the alleyway.

This was it. The moment of truth; the moment where Altaïr's plan would come to fruition.

Or wouldn't. There was that possibility, too.

He didn't spend time worrying about the consequences of failure, however. If this plan didn't work, he would simply try another. No sense in worrying about it. Altaïr needed to keep his mind clear. Focused. Sharp. Like an Assassin.

Like his destiny.

The Instructor hesitated on the border between sunlight and shadow, but did not see Altaïr pressed against the wall just to the left of the alley. His pale gray robes stood out in the passageway's shade; ghostly and ethereal. He looked around, bright black eyes scanning the deserted lane with a falcon's scrutiny, before stepping out onto the road.

Altaïr acted quickly. Mustering every ounce of speed he possessed, he leaped forward and grabbed his superior around the waist, pawing at the man's belt with his small, grubby hands. He kicked at he man's legs with his feet, trying to knock his larger opponent off balance.

The Instructor, surprised by Altaïr's sudden attack, let out a cry and began to tug at Altaïr's arms in an attempt to remove the boy. His eyes, the only facial feature revealed by his mask and hood, took on the size and shape of small plates as he felt his balance waiver, then crumble entirely. Boy and man tumbled to the earth in a kicking and spitting heap.

The Instructor, however, was not without skill. It did not take him long to work his knees between himself and the snarling Apprentice and drive the aforementioned joint deep into the small boy's stomach.

Altaïr went flying backwards with an "Umph!", the wind streaming from his lungs, and landed smack on his back on the hard packed lane. He sat up, gasping for air, and glared daggers at the Instructor.

"Give… me… the scroll!" he growled between stolen breaths. "Give it… to me!"

The Instructor sighed and rubbed his right hand gingerly. It was bleeding; a score of teeth marks marred his tan flesh.

"You fight more like a cat than a man," said the Instructor.

Altaïr had recovered sufficiently enough to spit out: "At least I don't hide in alleys for hours like a tortoise in its shell!"

The Instructor blinked. "You saw me go in there?"

Altaïr ground his teeth. "Yes."

"Oh. I didn't know. You were well hidden."

The sudden display of civil niceties threw Altaïr off guard. He had been expecting barbs or a despairing remark, not a compliment. "I, that is… thank you."

The Instructor sniffed slightly. "You're welcome."

Silence, broken only by the wind and Altaïr's harsh breaths, descended upon the pair.

"So…" said the Instructor, "are you going to come at me again?"

"… when I've caught my breath."

"Ah. I see." He rubbed the back of his hooded head. "But… try to hurry, please. I have to report to the fortress."

Altaïr's battle-ready face went slack and took on a look of confusion. "Really? Why?"

The Instructor blinked. "'Why,' you ask? Have you not heard new of the summons?"

Altaïr rose to his knees, averting his eyes to the dust at the Instructor's feet. He coughed once; twice. "No," he said, and began to cough again. His shoulders shook with suppressed tremors.

"Oh." Confusion was evident in the superior's eyes. "But… that boy… did you see a small boy come out of the alley a few minutes ago? He informed me of the summons. Where is he now? Did you see where he went?"

Altaïr didn't answer; he just kept coughing. The sharp exhales of air grew louder and louder the longer he sat crouched in the dust.

Alarmed, the Instructor took a step towards him. "I didn't think I hurt you that badly when I hit you." He attributed the coughing to pain, it seemed. "Are you alright? Is there blood? If there is, I could—"

Altaïr couldn't take it any more. The coughs abruptly turned into raucous bursts of laughter, and the Instructor's face paled. He took a hasty step backwards, his eyes even more confused. "Why are you—?" Then his eyes darkened. "You mock me. Why?"

Altaïr could hardly talk from laughing. So, instead, he pointed at the run-down market stall behind the Instructor and cried: "You dolt!"

The Instructor wheeled around… then his shoulders slumped. He began to laugh, too.

Malik stood a mere two meters away, and in his right hand he held aloft a scroll.

"I apologize, Brother," Malik said repentantly to the Instructor. "But while you were busy with my friend, I took the liberty of retrieving this from you." He gestured vaguely with the scroll.

Altaïr stood up; his laughter had subsided. "The whole point of me attacking you was to get you off guard and focused on me," he explained. "My friend waited for an opportunity, and when he saw one, he struck."

"And the coughing?" the Instructor asked, looking smug. "Was that a signal?"

"Um… no," said Altaïr. The Instructor's face fell. "I was simply trying not to laugh as Malik fumbled with your carrying bag."

"And you mentioned a small boy," said Malik gently. "He was another friend of ours, sent by us to lure you from your hiding place. He saw how the Instructors did not pursue those with scrolls, or seek to take back the scrolls—that's why we felt safe sending him in to talk to you, despite him having possession of a scroll."

The Instructor nodded gravely. "I see." He smiled—well, his eyes crinkled up at the corners, at least—and said: "The two of you made good use of teamwork. What are your names?"

They told him, and the Instructor's smile deepened.

"I will remember the two of you," he said. He began to walk down the lane, towards the fortress, but stopped. Sheepishly, he asked: "I suppose that the summons were entirely false, then?"

Altaïr and Malik nodded. "Our friend made all of it up on his own, within the span of a moment," Malik said proudly.

Laughter from the Instructor. "And what was your tale-teller's name?"

"Sena," said Altaïr. "He is the quickest of the Apprentices—both on his feet and with his head."

A nod. "I see." The Instructor redirected his steps towards the alley. "I will head for home, now, in an indirect way so as to avoid further… ah… confrontations." He smiled, and disappeared into the alley's gloom. His light robes faded quickly into obscurity. From the darkness, he called, "I will be watching the two of you. Good luck," and disappeared entirely.

"That went well," Malik remarked. He walked over to Altaïr and extended his hand "Here," he said, and handed Altaïr the scroll.

Altaïr stared at the cylinder for a moment, parchment cool beneath his hand. The red braid holding it tight was of fine cord; silk, probably. Triumph rushed through him, but then drained away.

"No," Altaïr said, tearing his eyes away from the scroll. "This belongs to you." He took Mali's hand, forced it open, and pressed the scroll into his friend's palm.

Malik's face contorted in confusion. "What are you doing?"

Altaïr patiently repeated: "This belongs to you."

"But you're the one who took a knee to the belly for it!" Malik protested, trying to force the scroll back into Altaïr's hands.

Altaïr took a step back and shook his head. "No," he said. "It is yours. You stole it from him. What you steal, you steal for yourself."

Altaïr fell silent, insides burning at his own words. He did not want to give up the scroll. He had endured pain for it, after all.

But then again… something else, something more noble, had swum up from the depths of his amnesiatic soul, and would not allow him to take back what his friend had rightfully—yes, _rightfully_—stolen for himself.

"We'll just get another one for me," Altaïr concluded, breaking free from his own thoughts. Though he kept an outward mask of surety on his youthful face, his mind was troubled. Despite all that he knew to be right and just, he wanted that scroll. Badly. "Best not waste time. It's nearly mid afternoon."

Malik's reluctance was evidenced by the look on his face. "I… suppose," he murmured, carefully tucking the scroll into his tunic. He disliked the thought of taking the scroll nearly as much as Altaïr disliked giving it away… but, still, a wicked little thrill of accomplishment whispered through him like a foul wind. Malik covered it well enough, but all the same… he had won where Altaïr had failed. For the very first time, in fact. Should he not be happy?

The two friends stood in silence for a moment, looking at one another, each unable to determine the other's emotions. Lucky for them, really, because had they known, the friendship might not have lasted as long as it did.

"Altaïr, do you want to—" Malik began, but stopped. He and Altaïr turned in unison towards the hay bale where Sena had been hiding. Voices, muffled, drifted out from behind the cart. One, high pitched and scared, was obviously Sena. The other…

Altaïr's eyes narrowed, and he looked sharply at Malik. Malik stared back, eyes concerned, then jerked his head at the cart. The exchange's meaning was obvious enough:

Altaïr: "What as that?"

And Malik: "Not sure. Shall we investigate?"

The resulting teamwork was nearly flawless. With nothing save a jerk of thumb and a dart of eye, they intentionally split up to circle the cart from opposite sides, footsteps silent and lithe as cats'.

What they found was not nearly so graceful a scene. Sena—brave little Sena—was surrounded by the worst three thugs in the academy: Bashan, Hashat, and Madar. They stood in a circle around the small boy, pushing him between them so he stumbled from bully to bully in a never ending cycle. The delinquents laughed and sneered at Sena as he fell to the ground at Bashan's feet.

"You thought you could get away, didn't you?" Bashan asked, crouching low in the dust so he and the prostrate Sena were eye to eye. "You thought you could steal the scroll we were getting from the Instructor without getting caught, didn't you?" He leered like a skull; eyes mocking and mouth toothy. "Well, I've got news for you, boy," he whispered, grabbing Sena by the collar and leveling him upright. "Stealing from Bashan will get you naught but bruises for your trouble." And with that, he smacked Sena squarely across the face with his open palm.

Malik was the first to react. "Stop!" he demanded, rushing forward. "You have no quarrel with him!"

Bashan wheeled around, the dazed Sena dangling from his fist. "Look who it is!" he laughed. "Hashat, Madar—say hello! We have company!"

"Put him down!" Malik hissed, fists balling into tension-wound blocks.

"Or you'll what?" Bashan asked mockingly. He jiggled Sena a bit, and the boy's lax arms flopped at his sides. "Hit me? Hurt me? Kill me?" His smile split his blocky face like a scar. "In case you haven't noticed, you're outnumbered three-to-one, and little Sena's in no position to aid you."

Malik stood his ground, but his eyes flickered to Altaïr. For a moment, he debated revealing Altaïr's presence, but decided against it. Their eyes met for a moment, and Altaïr knew Malik's thoughts. He would stay put until things got dicey. Keeping surprise on your side was an essential lesson for all Assassins, apprentices or otherwise. "Put him down," Malik repeated, and waited. He tried not to look at Altaïr, but he could see him hunkering down beneath the cart of hay in an effort to stay hidden.

Bashan must have seen something in Malik's eyes, for he took a small step backward. Hashat and Madar, seeing their leader's discomfiture, walked to slowly his side to back him up. Madar cracked his knuckles menacingly at Malik, and grinned. The expression was appallingly unintelligent.

"Fine," Bashan said gruffly, "I'll put him down." He made to toss Sena in Malik's direction, and Malik tensed. Bashan, however, did not throw the smaller boy. Instead, he pulled Sena closer to him, and, smiling, reached under Sena's shirt and took the scroll he had so obviously tried to conceal there.

Then he tossed Sena at Malik. Malik caught him in his arms and laid him gently on the ground.

"I'm not giving this up, though," Bashan said casually. He tossed the scroll from palm to palm.

"You would pass with someone else's scroll?" Malik spat. "You're despicable."

Bashan smiled again, and Malik did not like it. Not one bit. He disliked Bashan's next words even less. "Oh, I'm not going to graduate with it. I can wait another year." He tossed the scroll high into the air, then caught it in surprisingly nimble fingers. "I have… _special_ plans for this."

Malik studied the older boy. "What are you going to do?"

Bashan grimaced. "I've taken this test four times. Did you know that?"

Malik stared confusedly at the seemingly random admission.

"Well, I have," said Bashan. "And every damn year it is the same thing. 'Find a scroll! Don't open it!' Frankly, I'm sick of it." He began to pace. "It drives me insane. Firstly, the task itself would be simple, but for all of the other Apprentices running around wreaking havoc. And secondly—" He smirked. "—I kill myself wondering what they've written in the scrolls."

It dawned on Malik in a flash of insight. "You're going to look inside the scroll, aren't you?" he asked. "And then blame it on Sena."

"Correct," said Bashan, and began to unknot the silken cord.

* * *

* * *

AUTHOR BLARGH OF DOOM

So I realize this chapter cuts off abruptly, but I've never left you guys with a serious cliffhanger, so… no time like the present to get started! And I know that there wasn't much action in this chapter, but… more next, I promise. And it should be noted that this took me a grand total of... an hour to write. It's pretty rough, but it gets the job done.

How will Alti (my new nickname for Altaïr, by the way, is Alti. Desi and Alti. Woot!) and Malik and Sena far against Bashan and his goons? Find out next time. I think you guys will all like what happens… MWA HA HA!!! Cliffy!

Anyway, so Devil May Cry 4 came out yesterday…

MY SANITY IS SAVED!!!!!

It rocks. It fucking rocks. Sorry for the explicit, but it does. Truly. Get it… if you dare. It's fucking HARD on normal mode! But that can't stop me… oh, no, nothing can when it comes to me and DMC. We're inSEParable.

And remember how I mentioned I like hickory smocked burgers with bacon and cheese and extra sauce (mmm… sauce)? Yeah, the restaurant I frequented that carried them closed indefinitely for renovations. WHERE THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO GET MY FIX NOW, DAMMIT?! God, I sound like a junkie! For burgers… with extra sauce… mmm… sauce…

ANYWAY… yeah, I totally got my braces off. WOOT! No more metal mouth!

Any of you guys heard the song "The Chosen (Assassin's Creed)" by Brainpower and Intwine? It's a great mix of rap and rock inspired by the game—you guessed it!—ASSASSIN'S FUCKING CREED, DUDE! Check it out! It's on iTunes and Amazon; I know that for sure cuz I downloaded it XD

Okay, couple of more relevant announcements to make. You people who've faved my story are getting numerous… Scarily so. And you people who've put my story on your alert lists… well, you guys outnumber the favers by, like, another half or something? Close, anyway. And I got my historic 100th review a few days ago… crazy! Thanks for all your support, guys! You make my day! Er… week? Until AC2/DMC5/other-cool-game comes out, at least… then you'll get replaced, but hey! Whatever, right? I'm just a nameless, faceless writer you randomly stumbled across; why would you care?

But, _I _care about_ you_ guys. Lemme know if I've left stuff out that needed to be said, or if you're confused on ANY issue, okay? I need to keep my readers happy and informed!

All for now. Cheers!


	15. Chapter 15 & Author's Note of Gravy

The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 15

Bashan's blunt-yet-nimble fingers tugged expertly at the silken cord, and within seconds it was unraveled.

"What are you thinking?!" Malik roared, rising to his feet. His fists clenched tightly at his sides as his whole body trembled with shudders of suppressed rage. "Why would you do this, you base coward?! You're nothing more than a common thief; a lout; a lowlife; a—"

Bashan rolled his eyes and glanced at Madar. "Shut him up for me, will you?"

Madar didn't say a word. He didn't make a face. He simply leapt forward and planted a fist into Malik's gut.

Malik doubled over in pain, his final cry of 'brigand' fading in a puff of expelled breath. He sank to his knees, clutching his stomach and wheezing.

Sena had recovered somewhat, and climbed slowly to his knees. "Malik," he said, voice cracking on the last syllable, "oh, Malik, I'm so sorry," but Malik didn't answer. The pain made it too hard to think, let alone respond.

"Now that we have that pleasantry out of the way," Bashan said coolly, watching with approval as Madar stoically took his place at his leader's side, "I think it is at last time to satisfy my curiosity." He held up the scroll, making sure it fell into a beam of mid afternoon sun. Dust motes floated like specs of gold on the air, light bits of hay meal coloring the hazy fog like platinum morsels.

As Bashan stood there, admiring the scroll as he savored pulling it open for all to see, Malik raised his face a fraction of an inch, still over-exaggerating the huffs and puffs given to him by Madar's strike. He caught sight of Altaïr crouched low beneath the cart of hay, and a silent conversation passed between them.

Now? Altaïr asked.

Malik nodded imperceptibly, and one of his hands drifted from its hold on his stomach to the ground, where his fingers curled lightly around a small rock.

Now, he signaled to Altaïr, and banished his fake loss of wind. As one, the two boys leapt at the gloating Bashan.

Altaïr burst out from under the cart in a shower of hay, the hue of the stalks catching in the sun's light so they shone like spun gold. He did not cry out in battle lust, nor did he call attention to himself. He simply exploded from his place and leapt at the nearest opponent, who happened to be the wiry Hashat.

Hashat roared and stumbled forward as Altaïr threw his arms around the bigger boy's neck from behind and cut off his air supply. Hashat's sun-browned face grew darker and darer as blood gathered in his cheeks and forehead, and his lips puckered like a fish's as he strove to draw breath. Altaïr's legs—dangling feet off the ground due to Hashat's great height—tangled with Hashat's legs and made the older boy fall to the ground.

Altaïr (ever the opportunist) used this slight to his advantage. He twisted their entwined bodies so that Hashat fell face-first onto the stone pavement, upon which he cracked his nose and forehead with a sickening 'thock' sound. Altaïr rolled off of him, crouching low in preparation for his next attacker.

Meanwhile, Malik fought in his own way. With strong arms tempered by many months of chasing pigeons from the fortress battlements, he lobbed the rock he'd earlier acquired at the bulky Madar. Like the historical David's, the stone flew true, and like the historical Goliath, Madar's eyes rolled back into his head as he collapsed backwards to the ground with a low moan, a giant bruise blossoming between his eyes.

"You dirty faker!" Bashan screamed as Madar fell like an axed tree. "You fink! Cheat!"

"Who's a cheat?" Altaïr asked, and Bashan spun around in surprise, a comical look of shock etched onto his broad features. Altaïr had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Apparently, Bashan had been so involved in watching Malik's attack he had not even noticed the struggle between Hashat and the Son of None.

"You!" Bashan snarled, glancing at the prostrate Hashat. "You… you… you swine!"

"Come, now," Altaïr admonished, "is that really the best you can do?" He made to approach Bashan, but the older boy retreated a step.

"Don't come near me," he warned, holding the scroll like a shield, "or I'll open it!"

Altaïr stopped his advance.

Malik's voice was gentle. "You are outnumbered, comrade," he said. "Two to one."

"Three."

Bashan, Malik, and Altaïr all looked at Sena as he rose fully from the pavement. With shaky legs, he walked to Malik's side.

"Three to one," he said pointedly to Bashan. "And 'swine' is not a very original insult, as Altair mentioned, but if you insist on sticking to the porcine analogy, at least add on another adjective. Something as simple as "slop-sucking swine" would be more effective, if no more eloquent."

Altaïr looked at Sena in approval. The boy had courage, not to mention wit, if not strength.

Bashan licked his lips.

"Give up," Malik repeated. He had another rock clutched tight in his hand.

"What if I don't want to?"

Malik glanced at Altaïr, who dipped a nearly imperceptible nod.

_Throw the rock,_ Altaïr signed, _and strike the scroll from his hand. I will get it when he lets it go, if Sena doesn't beat me to it. He is sharp. He may understand the tactic before I even move._

Malik nodded back. _Distract him for me, then. And be ready, Altaïr._

_Always._

"We need not resort to further bloodshed, brother," Sena was saying in his persuasive voice. "Give up the scroll and end this."

Bashan said nothing, but made to open the scroll.

"Stop," Altaïr said sharply. "Open it, lose the only hostage you have, and we will be on you in an instant." His eyes flickered over Bashan's shoulder and met Malik's. Now was time.

Malik's arm threw back and hurled forward, stone flying from his fingers like a winging falcon. Sena, by his side, saw and understood the motion before the stone left Malik' hand, and started forward with uncanny speed. Altaïr did not even have a chance to blink.

The stone beat Sena to Bashan, but only just. As the older boy cried out in pain and the rock glanced away from his now bruise-darkened wrist, little Sena darted over to him, leapt over the fallen body of Madar, and made to snatch the tumbling scroll out of midair—

--but failed, and tripped.

It was easy to see why. Madar had not been as unconscious as Malik thought, and had grabbed Sena's ankle as the boy vaulted over him. Sena, however, reacted quickly to this, and smashed his other foot hard into Madar's nose. The nostrils gushed blood as Madar roared like a lion and rolled to his side, clutching his bleeding face and moaning. Sena leapt up, eyes searching wildly for the scroll.

It was too late, however. Altaïr, in the confusion, had not tried for the scroll. He stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide and mouth pinched into a thin, hard line as he watched Bashan take the scroll back up and smile cruelly down at Sena. He leered evilly, and hauled Sena up by the front of his robes. He reached down with his scroll-bearing hand and fumbled at the lip of his boot, until into the bright sunlight he drew a crude sliver of metal. Still smirking, he pressed the rough crescent against Sena's throat.

"Who," he hissed, and quoted Altaïr's earlier line with undue irony, "only has _one_ hostage?"

The weapon was obviously a homemade dagger, and Altaïr's face hardened. "No Apprentices are allowed weapons outside the sparring ring!" he barked, palms beginning to sweat. "You know the rules!"

Bashan chuckled. "Oh, but Altaïr," he said, "but I only follow the Creed; the one rule we _all_ adhere to." He began to recite the Creed. "Nothing is true—" he punctuated the last half of the Creed by drawing a thin line of blood from Sena's neck, "and _everything_ is permitted!"

Sena whimpered as the thin trail of crimson stained his skin a darker brown. He did not dare even to swallow for fear of jogging the blade deeper into his flesh.

"This is only a trial, Bashan!" Malik said in a harsh voice. "A game, really! End this madness, now!"

He smiled. "I have a better idea." Keeping the blade pressed tight against Sena's neck, he forced into the small boy's hands the ceremonial scroll. "Now," he said in a voice colored with affected pleasantness, "would you be so kind as to open your scroll for me, please?"

"What?!" Malik and Altaïr gasped in unison.

A bead of sweat dripped down Sena's temple as he echoed, more softly: "What?"

"You heard me," Bashan snapped. "Open it, or die! And when the Instructors ask you who opened the scroll, the only truthful answer you will be able to give is 'Sena!'"

"I will never open it!" Sena hissed. He made to toss the scroll to Malik, but Bashan had anticipated this, and applied more pressure to the boy's throat.

Malik thought over his strategic options, but came up dry. He did not know how to handle hostage situations yet; he had not been taught that skill, as it was normally revealed only to those of the rank Cadet. He could only think of one option, as Bashan had forced his hand.

"Bashan," Malik asked, "do you give me your word you will let Sena go if he complies to your wishes?"

Bashan laughed, and said: "I won't have further use for him… yes, I will let him go."

Malik took a deep breath and gazed into Sena's frightened eyes. "Open it, Sena. I promise you, I will aid you in obtaining another scroll once this one has been rendered useless!"

Sena's eyes sparkled with tears. "You do not have to, Malik—" he said, but Malik cut him off.

"No. I owe it to you, Sena, for the aid you gave me in finding my own scroll." He smiled ruefully. "And eye for an eye, I suppose, even though that saying is not typically used in this manner."

Sena returned the smile, although weakly. "All right, then." He took a deep breath, and slipped his fingers beneath the outermost layer of the scroll. Then he hesitated.

"Oh, hurry it up!" Bashan growled, pressing the knife closer.

Sena, startled, ripped the scroll open.

Bashan, eager to see, reached around Sena and grabbed the scroll. With a mad fervency he held the scroll up to the light with one hand—then lowered it in confusion. "What in the world?" he asked, face both horrified and baffled.

Altaïr could see beautiful black calligraphy sprawled all over the page, but did not have time to read it, for upon contact with the sunlight the script immediately began to fade. Within seconds, it had disappeared altogether.

"No!" screamed Bashan, throwing the scroll away from himself. "No!" His blade pressed even harder into Sena's neck, and the small boy gasped in pain, eyes panicky and scared.

Bashan's flagrant disregard for Sena's safety was the last straw. Altaïr's teeth ground together, and he tensed. Malik, sensing the approach of unregulated action, called out "Don't!", but it was too late. Altaïr had already lunged forward like and eagle upon a snake.

Sena screamed as Bashan shoved the boy away from him, the knife slicing into his skin. As Altaïr flew towards the older boy, fist raised and balled tightly into a fist, Bashan raised his crude dagger and made it whistle through the air.

It caught Altaïr across the face, cutting through the right side of his lips in a vicious vertical slash. Altaïr reeled backward, blood pouring through the wound, teeth and gums visible through the torn flaps of his cheek and lips. An agonized cry slipped past his mangled mouth, but Altaïr stifled it by pressing a fist against both the wound and his ignited maw.

"Altaïr!" Malik called as his friend crumpled backward to the dust. Sena let out a cry, picked himself up, and ran over to him, too. As tears poured down the small boy's face, he tugged his tunic up and off over his head, balled up the rough fabric, and handed it to Altaïr, who pressed it against his freely-bleeding wounds.

Bashan stood forgotten to the side, staring at his blood-drenched blade with blank eyes.

"He's losing too much blood!" Malik growled, applying pressure to the makeshift tourniquet. "Head wounds always bleed fast!" he turned to the sobbing Sena, whose hands fluttered about his friend's bleeding face without any apparent purpose. Blood sluiced down his own neck, the Malik noticed, but said nothing. "Sena! Run faster than you ever have before and find an Instructor! He will know what to do!"

Sena did not respond; he was too much in shock.

Malik slapped him across the face.

"Do it!" he barked, "or Altaïr may die!"

As he watched the younger boy stumble to his feet, then take off running more quickly than he had ever seen before, Altaïr felt his stomach clench with nausea. His grip on the shirt went slack, and suddenly he felt cold. Weak. Blood loss made him delirious.

Though it had to be a dream, he swore he could see a white angle belted with blood watching him from a nearby rooftop, then take wing and fly through the sky, only to disappear into a mound of gold (gold? he wondered absently) not too far away.

His last thought before falling unconscious due to a mix of equal parts pain, weakness, and confusion, was whether or not the white angel was coming for him or Bashan, who was surely destined for hell whenever Altaïr decided to exact revenge upon him. His mouth hurt. Bashan deserved a beating.

But, before that little pleasantry, Altaïr decided he needed some sleep, and drifted off into a pair of anguished brown eyes and a set of detachedly cool black ones shadowed by a white cowl…

* * *

* * *

AUTHOR NOTE OF GRAVY

Yes. Gravy. Not that I'm fond of it or anything. I just think it's a fun word.

Anyway… cliffy. Hoo-boy. I found this chapter amusing; especially the end when one of Alti's last thoughts is how he's gonna beat up Bashan.

Now we know where Altaïr little mouth scar comes from… and, boy, does Malik overreact at the sight of blood. Altaïr can't be losing _that_ much blood, anyway, can he?

Can he?

Oh well. We'll see next chapter.

Too tired to write a good note. Happy Valentines Day. It was my first one with a serious boyfriend. It rocked. He wrote me a song. How… cheesy. But romantic. Recorded it with his band in a studio. The sweetheart. Made me cry when I heard it.

Anyway… happy reading. Dammit I'm tired. Wrote this chapter in a grand total of… one hour. Yup. That's all the time it took.

Until later. Bye bye!

Dammit, I forgot... I got a PM from a certain member of this community (you know who you are) asking me what the heck they were supposed to read when I didn't update (I know this chapter took a while to get out, but I write in sporadic bursts that come at the most random of time...). Anyway, I recommended some AC fics not by yours truly. Some of my fav AC fics are "When Death Begs" by Tiefling Zhai, "Contingency Plan" by Master1795, and... uh... I can't remember the last one. Whoops. I had three in mind, but... oh well. Those two should whet yor appetites for now, right?

EDIT: I've gotten several reviews for this chapter saying how Malik overreacts to Alti's injury... and yes, I am aware of this, thanks. I have a reason for the craziness (and it helps widen the rivalry gap between Alti and Malik, but you didn't hear that from me...). Thanks!


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